Antelope Saloon. Obviously it had changed hands since then, because now it was the Crystal Star.
As Longarm headed toward the big saloon, he cast a glance at a shop he passed. Displayed in the window were several Stetsons, including one like the hat he’d lost on the train. But he couldn’t stop long enough to buy a replacement now. He had to make sure Cy wasn’t just ducking through the Crystal Star in order to throw anybody who was following him off the trail.
That wasn’t the case at all, Longarm saw a few moments later as he paused just outside the establishment’s batwing doors. Cy was at the bar, lifting a mug of beer to his mouth.
A good-sized saloon in a border town never really closed. Drinkers would be at the bar twenty-four hours a day, and the roulette wheels, the poker tables, and the faro layouts would never shut down. There would be a nearly steady stream of traffic up and down the stairs leading to the second and third floors where the bar girls plied their other occupation. But there were slack times, and this mid-morning hour was one of them. There were less than a dozen men at the bar, and only half the tables were occupied. That would make Longarm more conspicuous if he went inside, he realized. It might be better for him to keep an eye on Cy from out here on the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
Cy downed the mug of beer hurriedly and asked for another. A drink juggler in a wrinkled vest, limp tie, and soiled shirt drew the beer, cut the foamy head off with a paddle, and shoved the mug across the bar to Cy. The jockey seemed content to nurse this one along, and since the place was not busy at the moment, the bartender was content to let him do just that.
After a few minutes, though, Cy motioned for the bartender to come closer, and he leaned across the bar to speak quietly to the man. It was difficult for Longarm to judge expressions in the dim light, but he thought the bartender looked skeptical at first. Then whatever Cy was saying convinced the man, because he nodded and jerked a thumb toward a door at the end of the bar.
Hallelujah, thought Longarm. It was about time he got a break in this case.
Carrying the mug of beer, Cy went to the door, knocked on it, then spoke to whoever called out to him from the other side. The door swung open, just wide enough for Cy to slip through, then closed behind him.
Mighty interesting, Longarm told himself. The rangy lawman pushed through the batwings and ambled toward the bar.
The bartender saw him without really seeing him. Longarm was just another nameless, faceless drinker to the man. “What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Beer,” said Longarm. “Is it cold?”
“Coldest in El Paso,” the bartender replied listlessly, obviously not believing the testimonial and not caring if Longarm believed it either. He drew the beer, cut off the head, and pushed the mug across the bar. “Six bits.”
Longarm dropped a silver dollar on the bar and watched it disappear like magic. No change was forthcoming, nor had he expected any. Longarm lifted the mug to his lips and took a swallow. The beer was middling cool and not too bitter.
Not wanting to hurry things along too much, Longarm let the bartender drift away to wait on other customers while he sipped the beer. Eventually, the bartender worked his way back along the hardwood, and as Longarm drained the mug, the man asked, “Another?”
“Believe I will. Thanks.” Longarm waited until the mug had been refilled and paid for, then said idly, “Is there anywhere around here a man can sit in on a game of cards?”
The bartender frowned at him for a second, then laughed. “Hell, mister, look around the room. There’s a couple of games going on right behind you.”
Longarm shook his head without looking around. “I ain’t talking about some cowpokes playing penny-ante. I’m looking for a real game.”
“Kind of early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
“The gents I’m talking about don’t rightly care if it’s day or night, so long as the cards are being shuffled and dealt.” Longarm took a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket and casually tapped it against the edge of the bar. “You know the sort of fellas I mean.”
The bartender grunted. “Yeah, maybe,” he allowed. “Anybody in particular tell you to come here?”
Longarm didn’t want to risk coming up with a phony name. The bartender would likely see right through that. He said, “Nope. I just heard talk around town that the Crystal Star usually has a good game going on.”
“Could be.” The man’s eyes licked over the gold piece in Longarm’s hand like the tongue of a thirsty man in the desert when he spots a water hole.
Longarm slid the coin across the bar. “I’d admire to know for sure.”
The drink juggler’s fingers covered the gold piece as he inclined his head toward the door at the end of the bar. “Down there. Knock and tell ‘em Casey said it was all right.”
“Much obliged,” Longarm said with a smile. Carrying his mug of beer, as Cy had before him, he sidled along the bar toward the door.
A man’s voice answered his knock. “Yeah?”
Longarm put his head close to the door and said, “Casey sent me back here.”
The panel opened, and the guard inside said, “Big ‘un, ain’t you?”
“Back home they called me a runt,” Longarm replied, grinning, as he stepped through the door. The guard shut it behind him.
This man was definitely not a runt. He stood a couple of inches taller than Longarm, and his shoulders were even broader than the lawman’s. His bullet-shaped head was covered with very close-cropped gray hair. The thick ridge above his bushy eyebrows and the misshapen ears told Longarm the guard had spent a considerable amount of time in a prizefight ring. The dullness that glazed the eyes of many such men was missing in this fella, however. His gaze was sharp and surprisingly intelligent as he ran it over Longarm.
After a second, he pointed to another door at the end of a short hall. “Go through there. It’ll cost you a hundred
