“And, Duke . . . ?” Jason called to him.
Duke stopped and looked back.
“Mind what your brother Caleb said about them Butrum boys. They’re a mean lot.”
Duke nodded, then went on.
Chapter Four
It was just after dark when Duke Faglier rode into San Antonio. From the small adobe houses on the outskirts of town, dim lights flickered through shuttered windows. The kitchens of the houses emitted enticing smells of suppers being cooked, from familiar aromas of fried chicken, to the more exotic and spicy bouquets he couldn’t identify.
A dog barked, a ribbony yap that was silenced by a kick or a thrown rock.
A baby cried, a sudden gargle that cracked the air like a bullwhip.
A housewife raised her voice in one of the houses, launching into some private tirade about something, sharing her anger with all that were within earshot.
The downtown part of San Antonio was a contrast of dark and light. Commercial buildings such as stores and offices were closed and dark, but the saloons and cantinas were brightly lit and they splashed pools of light out onto the sidewalk and into the street. As Duke rode down the road he would pass in and out of those pools of light so that to anyone watching him he would be seen, then unseen, then seen again. The footfalls of his horse made a hollow clumping sound, echoing back from the false-fronted buildings as he passed them by.
By the time he reached the center of town, the night was alive with a cacophony of sound: music from a tinny piano, a strumming guitar, and an off-key vocalist, augmented by the high-pitched laughter of women and the deep guffaw of men. Somewhere in town, a trumpet was playing.
Duke dismounted in front of the Oasis Saloon, tied his horse to the hitching rail, then went inside. Lanterns hanging from overhead wagon wheels emitted enough light to read by, though drifting clouds of tobacco smoke diffused the golden light. He overheard snatches of a dozen or more conversations, many having to do with the war that was being fought back East.
As he stood for a moment just inside the door, Duke happened to see a “pick and switch” operation lift a man’s wallet. The victim was a middle-aged man who was leaning over the bar, drinking a beer and enjoying his conversation. While he was thus engaged, a nimble-fingered pickpocket deftly slipped the victim’s billfold from his back pocket. Instead of moving away quickly, however, the pickpocket walked slowly and deliberately away from the door, toward the back of the saloon.
Duke watched as the pickpocket passed the pilfered wallet off to an accomplice who was coming in the opposite direction, leaving the saloon. The entire operation was so quick and smooth that the victim never felt a thing. No one else in the saloon saw it happen, and if Duke had not been in the exact spot at the exact time, he wouldn’t have seen it, either.
Duke waited until the second man, the one who had received the stolen wallet, passed by him on the way out of the saloon. Then, just as the man got even with him, Duke knocked him down with a well-placed blow to the point of the chin. The pickpocket’s accomplice didn’t see it coming and he went down and out.
“What the hell!” someone shouted.
“Did you see that?”
The sudden and unexpected incident stopped all conversation as everyone looked toward Duke in disapproval. The barkeep brought a double-barrel shotgun up from under the bar, and though he didn’t point it at Duke, it very presence lent some authority to his question.
“You want to tell us what that was all about, mister?” the barkeep asked.
Duke leaned down and reached into the inside jacket pocket of the man he had just knocked out. He pulled out the wallet, then held the wallet out toward the victim.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
In a reflexive action, the victim reached for his back pocket and discovered that it was empty.
“What? I’ll be damned!” he said. “That man stole my wallet!” He pointed to the man on the floor who was, at that moment, just beginning to come around.
“No, sir,” Duke replied. Duke pointed to the actual pickpocket who was standing at the far end of the bar, now trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. “He is the man who stole your wallet,” he said. “This man was just his courier.”
The pickpocket tried to run, but two men grabbed him. Two more men took control of the man Duke had knocked down, and the pickpocket and his accomplice were hustled out of the saloon bound for the sheriff’s office.
“Mister, I want to thank you,” the victim said, extending his hand. “The name is Thornton. Michael Thornton.”
“Duke Faglier,” Duke said, shaking Thornton’s hand.
“Could I buy you a drink, Mr. Faglier?”
“Later perhaps, after I’ve had my supper,” Duke replied. “That is, if a fella can get anything to eat in here,” he added to the bartender. “Do you serve food?”
“Steak and potatoes, ham and eggs, your choice,” the bartender replied.
“Yes.”
“Yes, which?”
“Yes, I’ll have steak and potatoes, ham and eggs,” Duke said.
Thornton laughed. “The young man is hungry,” he said. “Bring him what he wants. I’ll pay for it.”
“You don’t need to buy my supper,” Duke said.
“I know I don’t need to, son. It’s just my way of thanking you.”
“If you really want to thank me, you can tell me where a man might find a job in this town.”
“You’re looking for a job?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You aren’t afraid of hard work, are you?” Thornton asked.
“Not if it’s honest.”
“Good enough. I own the livery,” Thornton said. “I need a good man, if you are interested.”
“I’m interested,” Duke said.
“Then the job is yours.” * * *
Over the next few months after Duke began working at the livery stable, the war continued to be the primary topic of conversation for most of the young men of San Antonio and Bexar County. When Duke was in one of the saloons he often listened, but seldom contributed to the conversations.
The most outspoken of all the young men of the county was Abner Murback. Abner was the son of Tyler Murback. Tyler Murback owned the Circle M Ranch. Second in size only to Long Shadow, the Circle M was a powerful presence in the county, and Abner was a natural leader among his peers.
Tyler had a daughter about James Cason’s age. Meg was a beautiful young woman, if a bit spoiled, and Tyler and Garrison Cason entertained hopes that one day their children would marry each other. Everyone expected that marriage to occur some day, and as a result, they were often put together at church socials, picnics, and the like. Even James had accepted the inevitable, but it was not something he dwelled on.
Duke had worked particularly hard this day, and all he wanted was supper and a couple of beers. He had no interest in being drawn into a discussion about the war, but Abner continued to wax poetic and Duke sighed, because he knew there was no way he would be entirely left out.
“Seems to me like we’ve done showed the Yankees we can whip ’em,” Abner Murback was saying, as Duke
