in his face the least of Caleb’s pains.
“What’s happening?” Hank asked as he crouched down to try to help Caleb to his feet.
But Caleb was already upright and searching the saloon around him. When he saw the first glint of bared iron, he grabbed hold of the barkeep’s shirt and pulled him down behind the bar. A gunshot barked through the air as the table that had played host to Mike’s game rolled lazily on the floor.
“Just what I thought would happen, that’s what,” Caleb snarled.
“You knew there was gonna be a fight?”
“I had a real good suspicion.”
“Should I call the law?”
“No,” Caleb said as he began searching behind the bar. Finding what he was after, he grabbed hold of the sawed-off shotgun and made sure it was loaded. “I’ll take care of this myself.”
The first gunshot had come from another table not too far from where Doc was sitting. Even though there wasn’t actually a table in front of him any longer, he remained in his seat and looked around as though he was merely sampling a passing breeze. Apparently, someone had tried to take advantage of the sudden turmoil by grabbing the money from another table.
It didn’t seem as though they were going to get away with it.
“You’re dead, Holliday,” Mike said as he kicked his chair onto the floor behind him.
“It was a fair hand,” Doc said while calmly getting to his feet. “Grousing about it won’t help.”
Virgil dusted himself off as he got back onto his feet. While he’d managed to avoid getting hit by too much of the overturned table, the miner sitting next to him had caught the brunt of it. Orville was holding his side but still managing to scoop up as many of his claims as he could hold with his free hand before making a run for it.
“Doc’s right,” Virgil said. “You lost fair and square. We both did.”
Mike’s lips curled back into an animal’s snarl. “Fair, my ass. He either agrees to hand my money back, or I put him out of his goddamn misery.”
Doc’s eyes were even colder than when he’d bet everything he had on an ace high. The hand he was betting on at the moment, however, was the one hovering within a few inches of the pistol holstered beneath his left arm. “You already made a mess,” Doc said in his smooth, southern manner. “Don’t make it any worse.”
As the players at the nearby table still struggled among themselves for the money in their own game, the flaring tempers seemed to spread like wildfire throughout the rest of the saloon. People who’d turned away from their games to see what was happening found their stacks of money depleted or another player peeking at cards that weren’t their own.
Standing in the eye of the hurricane, Mike, Doc, and Virgil stared each other down as if nothing else existed.
Suddenly, thunder filled the Busted Flush as the air exploded with the sound of a shotgun being fired into the ceiling.
“Enough of this!” Caleb shouted from where he stood in the middle of the main room. “Everyone step back, put your guns on the floor, and take a breath! If we can settle up and get on with our night, there won’t be any need to get the law.”
Doc’s voice drifted toward Mike like a stiletto wrapped in silk. “I know how we can settle this. Let’s flip a coin for it. Maybe you’ll have an easier time at that than trying to figure out how to play poker.”
A string of unintelligible curses spewed from Mike’s mouth as his hand snapped toward his gun.
With a flicker of motion and a subtle lean forward, Doc had drawn his own pistol and stuck the barrel underneath Mike’s chin.
Mike froze in his place; his hand still wrapped around a pistol that was almost clear of its holster. After a bit of pressure from the gun against his chin and a devilish tilt of Doc’s head, Mike loosened his grip and allowed the pistol to drop back into its holster.
“That’s better,” Doc said, ignoring the chaos swirling around him.
“Goddammit, Doc,” came a grumbling, familiar voice. “Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?”
Doc’s eyes flickered in the direction of that question and found Virgil standing up and shoving aside a drunk who’d decided to try his hand at brawling. As he looked back toward Mike, Doc made a couple of sideways steps so he could watch both men without having to look away from either one.
“That miner had more deeds in his pocket. Deeds that were actually worth something,” Virgil said. “He was about to wager every last one of them before you stepped in and spoiled the whole thing.”
“Well then,” Doc said. “I suppose you had every intention of splitting your share with me?”
Virgil glanced over to the miner, who was busy scrambling toward the front door while doing his best to avoid the incoming punches, kicks, or bottles flying through the air. While the brawl wasn’t the biggest the Busted Flush had ever seen, it was doing a fair amount of damage.
“Damn. He’s headed out the door,” Virgil said.
“He’s a gambler,” Doc pointed out. “Not to mention the fact that he came out ahead today. He’ll be back, and he won’t mind playing with us. It’s this one he’s gonna be wary of.” With that last part, Doc pushed his gun underneath Mike’s chin just enough to point the other man’s head upward a few more degrees.
But Virgil didn’t even seem to take notice of Mike squirming and cursing at the end of Doc’s arm. Instead, he shook his head and slowly lowered his arm until it was within drawing distance of his pistol. “He’s not the one that worries me, Doc. At least he knows his place.”
For a moment, Doc looked surprised. That moment passed quickly, only to be replaced by a subtle shaking of his head. “That truly is a shame, then. We could have made some real money together.”
“Partners need to trust each other, Doc. At least a little.” Virgil’s hand flashed toward his gun while his eyes remained locked upon his target. He cleared leather, certain that he would get his shot off before Doc could shift his own gun from where it was wedged beneath Mike’s chin. There was a mix of regret and victory in Virgil’s heart, soon to be joined by a chunk of hot lead.
Doc’s right hand snapped to aim his pistol at Virgil. Without blinking an eye, he squeezed his trigger and rocked Virgil back a few steps.
The gambler’s eyes were wide as the pain started to flood through his chest. His instinct was to aim and take his shot anyway, but he no longer even had the strength to hold his gun. The pistol slipped through his fingers as it and its owner both dropped to the floor.
At that moment, Doc felt some pain of his own. It was a jab in his ribs followed by a sharp stab when he tried to breathe.
Mike’s elbow had pounded into his side while his other hand came up to try and knock the gun from Doc’s hand. The next move he made was to draw his own pistol and thumb back the hammer.
“You cheatin’ son of a b—”
Mike’s insult was cut off by the roar of a shotgun at close range. The blast took a chunk out of his torso and spun him around. The pistol in his hand went off but sent its round into the mirror behind the bar.
Stepping forward with the shotgun still smoking in his hands, Caleb looked down as though he expected Mike to take another swing at him. Not only was Mike dead, but the pistol he’d been holding had been knocked clear from his hand.
Although a single shot had sparked the fighting to begin with, the shotgun blast had been more than enough to end it. Everybody in that saloon stopped what they were doing. Every face turned to stare at Caleb, who stood over the messy remains of Loco Mike Abel.
For a few seconds, the roar of the shotgun was the only thing Caleb could hear. The echo of that shot rumbled through him like a smaller tremor after an earthquake had passed.
Then, after what felt like an eternity of standing there with that gun in his hands, Caleb was able to lower the weapon and take in some of what was going on around him.
Although the saloon was considerably less full than it had been moments ago, it was far from empty. The faces that gaped back at him were mostly familiar. Every last one of them, however, seemed to be in shock.
“Jesus Christ,” came one voice from near the bar. “He shot him.”
“He shot him dead,” agreed another. “I saw it.”
“I saw it, too. Damn near cut him in half.”
