“Yes, sir. The reason is, Mr. Peabody won this-here saloon in a game of cards. Fact is, he was holdin’ this very hand,” he said, pointing to a glass-encased box. There, fanned out for display, was a royal flush, exactly like the one depicted on the sign out front. “That’s how come he came to change the name of the saloon from Red’s Place to the Royal Flush. And to show his gratitude, well, first time anyone comes into the saloon, their first drink is on the house.”
“That’s very generous of Mr. Peabody.”
At that moment the piano player hit a note that was so discordant it raised the hackles on the back of Hawke’s neck, like chalk squeaking on a blackboard.
“Where did you get your piano player?” he asked, nodding toward the bald, sweating man who was pounding away at the keyboard.
“That there is Aaron Peabody,” the barkeep replied.
“Peabody? The owner?”
The barkeep shook his head. “The owner lives back in Cheyenne. Aaron is his younger brother.”
That was all the information Hawke needed. The guy could be playing with his elbows, but if he was the owner’s brother, his position was secure.
In the mirror behind the bar Hawke saw someone come into the saloon. The man moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room.
Hawke noticed this because he had made the same kind of entrance a few moments earlier. It was the entrance of a man who lived by his wits, and often by his guns. It was the move of a man who had made enemies, some of whom he didn’t even know.
Hawke had never met Ethan Dancer, but he had heard him described, and from the way this man looked and acted, he would bet that this was the gunfighter. Even as he was thinking about it, Jake bore out his musings.
“Donnie,” Jake said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Dancer is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”
“All right,” Donnie said. He bent down to pick up the little pile of trash he had swept up.
“Quickly, man, quickly,” Jake said. “Never mind that.”
Dancer walked over to an empty table. By the time he sat down, Donnie had returned with the special bottle, and he handed it to Jake. The barkeeper poured a glass, then took it and the bottle to the table.
“Here you go, Mr. Dancer,” he said obsequiously.
Dancer said nothing. He just nodded and took the glass as Jake set the bottle in front of him.
“Call me if you need me, Mr. Dancer,” Jake said, wiping his hands on his apron.
Again Dancer just nodded.
Jake returned to the bar, then, seeing that Hawke’s beer was nearly empty, slid down the bar to talk to him.
“Do you know who that is?”
“I heard you say his name was Dancer.”
“Yes. Ethan Dancer. I reckon you have heard of him, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“They say he’s kilt hisself more’n fourteen men,” Jake said, not to be denied the opportunity to impart the information.
“Fourteen, huh?” Hawke replied.
“Yes, sir, at least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he’s kilt. He mighta kilt a lot more’n that.”
“You don’t say,” Hawke said. “That’s quite a reputation to be carrying around.”
“Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Jake said.
For the next few minutes Hawke just stared at Dancer’s reflection in the mirror. After a while Dancer sensed that he was being stared at and glanced up. The two men’s eyes caught and locked in the mirror.
Dancer stared back at the man in the mirror, and was surprised to see his stare returned with a similar unblinking gaze. There were very few men who could meet his gaze without turning away, whether in revulsion from his looks or out of fear of his reputation.
Dancer continued to glare at the image in the mirror, giving him his “killing” expression. It was a glare had made men soil their pants, but it looked to him as if the man at the bar actually found the moment amusing.
“Hey, you,” Dancer called, his words challenging.
All conversation in the saloon stopped and everyone looked at Dancer.
Hawke did not turn around.
“You, at the bar,” Dancer said. “Quit looking at me in that mirror.”
This time Hawke did turn, still with a bemused expression on his face.
“Do you know who I am?” Dancer asked.
“I heard the bartender say your name was Ethan Dancer,” Hawke replied.
“Does that name mean anything to you?”
“I’ve heard of you,” Hawke said easily.
“If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m not a man to be riled.”
Hawke smiled and lifted his beer. “I’ll try to remember not to rile you,” he said.
This wasn’t going the way it should, Dancer thought, finding the situation disquieting. Clearly, this man knew who he was…and clearly, he wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t used to that.
“Ya hoo!” someone shouted, coming into the saloon then. He was holding a rock in one hand and his pistol in the other. He fired the pistol into the ceiling.
The others in the saloon were startled by the unexpected pistol shot.
“Luke! What the hell are you doin’, coming in here shootin’ up the place?” Jake scolded.
“Gold!” Luke replied. “Me ’n’ Percy’s done discovered gold!”
“What? Did you say gold?” one of the other customers asked.
“That’s what I said all right. Gold, and a lot of it too. Why, they’s enough gold up there to make ever’ man in Green River rich as a king!”
“Up where?” Jake asked. “Where is this gold?”
“Yeah, where is it?” another asked.
“Up in the Sweetwater,” Luke said. He waved the rock around. “I done had this assayed. Eighty dollars a ton, boys! Eighty dollars a ton!”
By now everyone in the saloon, including Jake, was crowding around Luke, trying to get more information from him. Where, exactly, in the Sweetwater Range was the gold? How did he find it? Did anyone else know about it yet?
As the discussion of gold was taking place, Hawke continued to stare at Dancer, who had quit returning the gaze and was now staring pointedly into his glass of whiskey.
One of the patrons slipped out of the saloon, and a second later those inside could hear the clatter of hoofbeats as he rode away.
“Hey, boys, some have already started. If we don’t get up there now, we’re goin’ to be left suckin’ hind tit!” someone shouted, which started a rush for the door. Within moments nobody was left in the saloon but Jake, the piano player, Hawke, and Dancer.
Hawke picked up his beer and turned his back to the bar. He lifted his mug to his lips as he studied Dancer.
“You ain’t goin’ after the gold?” Jake asked Hawke.
“No.”
“I’d be out there with them right now if I didn’t have this here job,” Jake said.
“The man who discovered gold…I think you called him Luke?”
“Yes sir. Luke Rawlings is his name.”
“Why do you think Luke came in here like that?”
“Well, wouldn’t you be excited if you’d discovered gold?”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “But I don’t think I’d be telling everyone exactly where I found it.”
“I’ll be damned. I never thought about that. Why do you reckon he did tell?”
“I don’t know,” Hawke replied. “It is puzzling.”
