Without speaking, Jacoby took the whiskey bottle, poured himself a small drink, and stood there as he sipped, waiting for Macklin to speak and wondering just what the hell had happened to shake his friend up so.
After a moment, and after he’d slugged down another drink, without spilling too much, Macklin turned toward Jacoby and leaned his elbow on the bar. “Carl, you were right ‘bout Jensen.” He shook his head. “I ain’t seen nothin’ like it in all my born days.”
“What happened in there, Mac?” Jacoby asked, wondering how Macklin had been able to see Jensen’s draw since he hadn’t heard any gunfire.
Macklin poured himself another drink, but this time he sipped it instead of swallowing it down in one gulp. “I think the man must have eyes in the back of his head. I followed him and his friends into the saloon, and I took up a station at the bar and commenced to drink me a beer while I kept a look on him out of the corner of my eye. He must’ve noticed me watchin’ him or something, ‘cause he come over to the bar where I was standin’ and he braced me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He asked me what was it I wanted. When I didn’t exactly answer his question and I accidentally let my right hand move toward my gun, he drew his pistol.”
Jacoby let his lips curl in a small smile, knowing what was coming next. “Pretty fast, huh?”
“Fast ain’t exactly the word I’d use, Carl. More like lightning, I think. One second I was looking in his eyes, as cold and black as a snake’s, an’ the next second his hand was full of iron and I was staring down the barrel of a Colt—and the thing is, I didn’t even see his hand move.” He took another sip of whiskey, his hand more stable now.
“You know how when you’re facing somebody an’ they’re fixin’ to draw, you can usually see a twitch of their arm muscle or a shift in their eyes ‘fore they hook and draw?” he asked, his face pale.
Jacoby nodded. He knew what Mac meant. There was almost always some telltale sign before a man committed himself in a gunfight. Knowing this and recognizing it was what gave professional gunfighters the edge in such contests.
“Well,” Macklin continued, “there was nothing about Jensen that even hinted he was going for his gun. One minute he’s looking me in the eye, just talking as natural as you please, and the next he’s somehow got a gun in his hand stuck against my chest and his eyes are hard and black as flint.”
Jacoby’s eyes narrowed. “And he didn’t threaten you or hit you or anything like that after he drew his pistol and had the drop on you?”
Macklin shrugged, dropping his gaze to stare into his whiskey. “Who needs to threaten when you can draw a six-killer like that?”
“But Mac,” Jacoby said earnestly, “can’t you see what I’ve been trying to tell you? Jensen ain’t no cold-blooded killer. He had the drop on you in front of his friends. If he was a showboat or looking to impress ‘em, he could’ve pistol-whipped you or even shot you down. Hell, this is his town. No one would’ve blamed him. But he didn’t.”
Macklin’s expression became thoughtful. “No, he didn’t, an’ you’re right. There wasn’t nothin’ I could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to.”
Jacoby turned back to the bar and downed the rest of the whiskey in his glass. “Maybe we’d better try and talk some sense into Sarah, or at least get her to hold off until we can figure out what we got to do.”
Macklin smirked and drained his glass in one long swallow. “Hell, there ain’t no need in worryin’ ourselves over that, Carl, my friend. Old Man MacDougal wants Jensen dead, an’ so does his daughter Sarah. As far as them two are concerned, once they’ve made up their minds on something, it’s as good as gold.”
“But maybe we can convince them they’re wrong about him,” Jacoby argued.
Macklin laughed. “You ever try to tell Sarah anything she didn’t want to hear, boy?”
Jacoby nodded. “Yeah, I see what you mean. She is a mite stubborn at times.”
“No, Carl. A mule is a “mite’ stubborn. Sarah is full-on-all-the-time stubborn.”
“So, what are we gonna do?”
Macklin sighed. “I guess we got to do like you say and at least try to make her see reason.” He chuckled. “Hell, worst she can do is chew our ears off.”
“Maybe if we get her to hold off for a while and to watch how Jensen operates around town. Maybe she’ll start to see that he ain’t exactly the monster she thinks he is.”
“I still think we’re whistlin’ in our hats, but like you say, it won’t hurt to try and talk some reason into her, though the words reason and woman don’t ordinarily belong together.”
Macklin headed on over to the cafe while Carl walked to the general store down the street. Once inside, he caught Sarah’s eye, mouthed the words “Sunset Cafe,” and then left, hoping she’d understand that he needed to talk to her.
Sarah waited until Carl had been gone for a few minutes and then she went over to Peg Jackson, who was stocking a shelf in the rear of the store.
“Peg,” she said, “I’m going to go over to the Sunset Cafe and get some coffee. I’m a little sleepy today and I need something to pick me up. Would you like for me to bring you back a cup?”
“That would be delightful, Sarah, and could you also get me a piece of one of those sweet cakes they make so well over there?”
“Certainly,” Sarah said, and she took off her apron and walked down the block and around the corner to the cafe.
Carl and Dan were sitting in a corner booth toward the back away from any windows. Macklin didn’t want to be seen with Sarah now that he’d managed to arouse Jensen’s suspicions.
Sarah joined them at the table after making sure that no one she knew was in the place. After the waitress had taken their orders and placed coffee for all of them on the table, Sarah spoke. “Now, what’s so all-fired important
