Tomatch. Only his thinning gray hair gave a clue to his age, and that seldom was uncovered from beneath the low-crowned, flat-brimmed hat he wore tilted slightly forward, low over his slate gray eyes. “Yeah, Britt, I heard it was comin’.” The bony shoulders rose and fell. “Well, let’er come. I’ll kill the first gunman who draws a gun in Lodgepole. That’s my job.”
Caleb studied the marshal and didn’t particularly care for what he saw. Marshal Holt was a killer, through and through. Cold, unemotional, and ruthless. Jack Britt frowned heavily. “Oh, I don’t think we gotta take any such quick action as that. Do…. ”
“Look, Britt. This here is my headache, not yours. I get paid to keep the peace, and, by Gawd, I’ll keep’er. Any o’ them Texans come into town huntin’ trouble, I’ll handle’em.”
Without a word, Caleb and Jack left Marshal Holt’s office. On the plank sidewalk outside, Jack’s smoky eyes were narrowed a little. He pulled his coat a little closer about him. The rain was starting again and its tiny fingers were cool on the back ofhis neck. “I’ll be damned if I like what’s comin’, Caleb. That marshal’s a gun hawk if I ever saw one. Oh, hell”—he turned up the walk toward the Long-horn Saloon—“let’s go get a drink.”
Caleb pulled the flat, stiff brim of his low-crowned hat down over his eyes. The rain didn’t bother him half as much as the brusque town marshal did. They walked among the huddled people on the sidewalk and edged into the saloon. A rancher was loudly praising the rain over a tin cup of lukewarm beer. He raised the cup with one hand, his luxurious mustache with the other, and drank with loud, gurgling sounds. There were about fifteen Lodgepole townsmen and cattlemen in the place. A sprinkling of younger cowboys, flushed and alert, were scattered through the crowd. In a far corner, a poker game was going full tilt, the players impassively smoking and ignoring the rest of the room.
“What’ll it be, gents?”
“Couple o’ beers, Sam.”
The tin cups slid before Caleb and Jack, and the bartender looked at them anxiously. “Trouble’s brewin’, boys.”
Jack drank a little and nodded sourly. “You ain’t tellin’ us nothing, Sam.”
“No? Well, there was three o’ them Texans in here a while back, an’ one of’em was a big
hombre
with tied-down guns. They didn’t stay long, just looked us over an’ left.”
Caleb was surprised that they were in town so early. He said nothing and drank his beer slowly, eyes on the backbar mirror. Jack Britt shrugged. “Most o’ the cowmen been in, Sam?”
The bartender nodded wryly. “Hell, yes. I reckonevery cowman fer a hundred miles been here once or twice this mornin’.” He shook his head. “They’re wanderin’ aroun’ town like lost dogs, lookin’ to be in the right place at the right time, I reckon.”
“You there, at the bar. Squawman!”
The room got suddenly quiet enough to hear men breathing. Caleb had seen them come in while the bartender and Jack had been talking. He had seen the lanky foreman of the Texans single him out to the crowd of cold-eyed, bronzed-faced men behind him. Caleb set the beer cup down easily and answered without turning around. “If you mean me,
Tejano
, remember what I told you about callin’ folks squawman up in this country.”
The big man’s hands were poised to swoop for his tied-down guns and his even, white teeth were visible through the flat lips. “Turn aroun’, squawman!”
Caleb didn’t move. He calmly studied the hard faces behind the foreman. “How many men you got there,
gringo salido?”
The insult was worse than being called a squaw-man, and the Texans all knew it. The foreman ripped out an obscene oath. “Enough to take care of any Lodgepole cowmen who want to buy into this game.”
“Well, Texan, tell’em to get out from behind you,’cause these boys aren’t doin’ my fightin’ for me an’ I don’t want to hit
Caleb studied the marshal and didn’t particularly care for what he saw. Marshal Holt was a killer, through and through. Cold, unemotional, and ruthless. Jack Britt frowned heavily. “Oh, I don’t think we gotta take any such quick action as that. Do…. ”
“Look, Britt. This here is my headache, not yours. I get paid to keep the peace, and, by Gawd, I’ll keep’er. Any o’ them Texans come into town huntin’ trouble, I’ll handle’em.”
Without a word, Caleb and Jack left Marshal Holt’s office. On the plank sidewalk outside, Jack’s smoky eyes were narrowed a little. He pulled his coat a little closer about him. The rain was starting again and its tiny fingers were cool on the back ofhis neck. “I’ll be damned if I like what’s comin’, Caleb. That marshal’s a gun hawk if I ever saw one. Oh, hell”—he turned up the walk toward the Long-horn Saloon—“let’s go get a drink.”
Caleb pulled the flat, stiff brim of his low-crowned hat down over his eyes. The rain didn’t bother him half as much as the brusque town marshal did. They walked among the huddled people on the sidewalk and edged into the saloon. A rancher was loudly praising the rain over a tin cup of lukewarm beer. He raised the cup with one hand, his luxurious mustache with the other, and drank with loud, gurgling sounds. There were about fifteen Lodgepole townsmen and cattlemen in the place. A sprinkling of younger cowboys, flushed and alert, were scattered through the crowd. In a far corner, a poker game was going full tilt, the players impassively smoking and ignoring the rest of the room.
“What’ll it be, gents?”
“Couple o’ beers, Sam.”
The tin cups slid before Caleb and Jack, and the bartender looked at them anxiously. “Trouble’s brewin’, boys.”
Jack drank a little and nodded sourly. “You ain’t tellin’ us nothing, Sam.”
“No? Well, there was three o’ them Texans in here a while back, an’ one of’em was a big
hombre
with tied-down guns. They didn’t stay long, just looked us over an’ left.”
Caleb was surprised that they were in town so early. He said nothing and drank his beer slowly, eyes on the backbar mirror. Jack Britt shrugged. “Most o’ the cowmen been in, Sam?”
The bartender nodded wryly. “Hell, yes. I reckonevery cowman fer a hundred miles been here once or twice this mornin’.” He shook his head. “They’re wanderin’ aroun’ town like lost dogs, lookin’ to be in the right place at the right time, I reckon.”
“You there, at the bar. Squawman!”
The room got suddenly quiet enough to hear men breathing. Caleb had seen them come in while the bartender and Jack had been talking. He had seen the lanky foreman of the Texans single him out to the crowd of cold-eyed, bronzed-faced men behind him. Caleb set the beer cup down easily and answered without turning around. “If you mean me,
Tejano
, remember what I told you about callin’ folks squawman up in this country.”
The big man’s hands were poised to swoop for his tied-down guns and his even, white teeth were visible through the flat lips. “Turn aroun’, squawman!”
Caleb didn’t move. He calmly studied the hard faces behind the foreman. “How many men you got there,
gringo salido?”
The insult was worse than being called a squaw-man, and the Texans all knew it. The foreman ripped out an obscene oath. “Enough to take care of any Lodgepole cowmen who want to buy into this game.”
“Well, Texan, tell’em to get out from behind you,’cause these boys aren’t doin’ my fightin’ for me an’ I don’t want to hit
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