no-account bastard for us, and weâll get around to paying you for it when weâre damned good and ready.
Those thoughts were running through Lukeâs mind when he spotted the Panther Saloon up ahead on the left. The letters on the sign nailed to the front of the awning over the boardwalk had faded, and the dim light of the rainy day made them even harder to read. Once Luke made them out, though, he angled the dun in that direction.
âSoon as Iâm finished in there, weâll find you a nice, dry stable, old-timer,â he said.
The dun flicked an ear.
The saloon had bigger front windows than most of the buildings, but they were so dirty that not much light filtered through them. At this time of year the double doors at the entrance were closed, instead of being open with just the swinging bat wings in them. A couple of benches where idlers could sit and spit and whittle when the weather was nice flanked the doorway.
Three miserable-looking saddle mounts with their heads drooping were tied up at one of the hitch rails. Out of habit, Luke checked the brands as he reined the dun to a stop. All three horses were from the Block K. He had never heard of that spread, but he assumed it was a ranch somewhere not too far from Skunk Creek. Three of the hands, unable to do any real work because of the weather, had ridden into the settlement to pass the afternoon, he supposed.
He dismounted and grimaced as his boots sank into the mud. They came loose with sucking sounds when he stepped up onto the boardwalk after looping the dunâs reins around the hitch rail. In an effort to get some of the mud off, he stomped several times as he headed for the doors, but the sticky stuff clung stubbornly.
He was sure this wouldnât be the first time somebody had tracked mud into the Panther Saloon.
Before he went in, he leaned his head forward to let more collected rain water drain off his hat. He unbuttoned his slicker and flapped it to shake off some of the moisture, and not coincidentally, to give him easier access to his Remingtons. With that done, he grasped the knob of the left-hand door, turned it, and went inside.
The air outside was chilly and dank, but inside the saloon the atmosphere was hot and oppressive. Heâd be lucky if he didnât catch his death of the grippe, thought Luke . . . if he didnât get holes blown in him during the next few minutes.
The heat came from a pair of big potbellied stoves in opposite rear corners of the low-ceilinged room. The bar was to the right, with a tarnished brass rail running along its base and several spittoons sitting in front of it. Half a dozen mismatched tables were scattered haphazardly to the left. In the back was a small open space for dancing and an old piano that probably hadnât been tuned since Stephen Foster was a boy. Nobody was around to play the piano, and there wasnât a woman in the place as far as Luke could see, so the dance floor was going unused, too.
Only one of the tables was occupied. The three cowboys who went with the trio of Block K horses outside sat there with a bottle of whiskey on the table between them. They were doing some serious drinking, apparently, and concentrating on the job at hand, so they barely glanced at Luke as he came in and closed the door behind him.
The man behind the bar was tall, with thinning blond hair and a beard. He wore a soiled apron over a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the sleeves of a set of red long-handled underwear. He had an empty glass in his right hand and used a rag in his left hand in an attempt to polish it. The glass had too many greasy fingerprints on it for the rag to do much good.
The beard was new, but other than that, the bartender looked just like the picture on the wanted poster Luke had folded up and put in his shirt pocket. The paper might be a little damp now, but it would still be legible.
The bartender nodded and said, âNasty day out there,
Those thoughts were running through Lukeâs mind when he spotted the Panther Saloon up ahead on the left. The letters on the sign nailed to the front of the awning over the boardwalk had faded, and the dim light of the rainy day made them even harder to read. Once Luke made them out, though, he angled the dun in that direction.
âSoon as Iâm finished in there, weâll find you a nice, dry stable, old-timer,â he said.
The dun flicked an ear.
The saloon had bigger front windows than most of the buildings, but they were so dirty that not much light filtered through them. At this time of year the double doors at the entrance were closed, instead of being open with just the swinging bat wings in them. A couple of benches where idlers could sit and spit and whittle when the weather was nice flanked the doorway.
Three miserable-looking saddle mounts with their heads drooping were tied up at one of the hitch rails. Out of habit, Luke checked the brands as he reined the dun to a stop. All three horses were from the Block K. He had never heard of that spread, but he assumed it was a ranch somewhere not too far from Skunk Creek. Three of the hands, unable to do any real work because of the weather, had ridden into the settlement to pass the afternoon, he supposed.
He dismounted and grimaced as his boots sank into the mud. They came loose with sucking sounds when he stepped up onto the boardwalk after looping the dunâs reins around the hitch rail. In an effort to get some of the mud off, he stomped several times as he headed for the doors, but the sticky stuff clung stubbornly.
He was sure this wouldnât be the first time somebody had tracked mud into the Panther Saloon.
Before he went in, he leaned his head forward to let more collected rain water drain off his hat. He unbuttoned his slicker and flapped it to shake off some of the moisture, and not coincidentally, to give him easier access to his Remingtons. With that done, he grasped the knob of the left-hand door, turned it, and went inside.
The air outside was chilly and dank, but inside the saloon the atmosphere was hot and oppressive. Heâd be lucky if he didnât catch his death of the grippe, thought Luke . . . if he didnât get holes blown in him during the next few minutes.
The heat came from a pair of big potbellied stoves in opposite rear corners of the low-ceilinged room. The bar was to the right, with a tarnished brass rail running along its base and several spittoons sitting in front of it. Half a dozen mismatched tables were scattered haphazardly to the left. In the back was a small open space for dancing and an old piano that probably hadnât been tuned since Stephen Foster was a boy. Nobody was around to play the piano, and there wasnât a woman in the place as far as Luke could see, so the dance floor was going unused, too.
Only one of the tables was occupied. The three cowboys who went with the trio of Block K horses outside sat there with a bottle of whiskey on the table between them. They were doing some serious drinking, apparently, and concentrating on the job at hand, so they barely glanced at Luke as he came in and closed the door behind him.
The man behind the bar was tall, with thinning blond hair and a beard. He wore a soiled apron over a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal the sleeves of a set of red long-handled underwear. He had an empty glass in his right hand and used a rag in his left hand in an attempt to polish it. The glass had too many greasy fingerprints on it for the rag to do much good.
The beard was new, but other than that, the bartender looked just like the picture on the wanted poster Luke had folded up and put in his shirt pocket. The paper might be a little damp now, but it would still be legible.
The bartender nodded and said, âNasty day out there,
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