LITMIR.BIZ

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or seven mismatched tables, round and square, were scattered around the room, paired up with an assortment of chairs. A dozen cowboys, whom he figured had trailed up the cattle herd he’d passed outside of town, had taken up residence. Some were drinking. Some were playing cards. Two near the back seemed to be arguing about who was going to go first with the one and only woman in the place. Her red-lipped smile was widening in direct proportion to the bidding.

      “Whiskey,” he told the slick-haired bartender as he leaned one elbow on the scarred surface.

      He angled around to survey the room. His heart drummed furiously in his chest, and his fingers were funeral cold. Inside, he was determined yet scared. But he didn’t let on. Instead, he let his gaze wander across the faces of the men present, pausing, searching, looking for the last of the men he sought.

      They all looked young, too damned young, he thought, feeling suddenly old at thirty. He hesitated once on a tight-lipped cowboy playing cards, but then the man shoved his hat back, revealing dark brown hair. Josh let go the breath he only now realized he’d been holding. Larson had said Gibson was blond, definitely blond.

      “Damn,” he muttered to himself.

       Well, did you expect him to be sitting here? A man can hope, can’t he?

      “Two bits,” a man’s voice said.

      Josh actually flinched and jumped a little at the sound of the bartender’s voice right behind him. He wheeled around, leaning more fully on the bar, holding the empty glass while the bartender poured.

      It looked like whiskey but smelled like horse piss, and Josh wasn’t so sure he wanted to drink it.

      So he toyed with the glass, revolving it between thumb and forefinger, absently making a game out of not spilling it. A couple of men came in and took the table closest to him. He eyed them suspiciously and discounted them just as quickly.

      When no one was paying much attention, he asked the bartender, “You seen Gibson around lately?” He made it sound like they were old friends, though Larson and his pal, Cordell, never got around to first names.

      “Davy Gibson?” the barman replied. He was cleaning a glass with a grimy-looking towel that needed to spend a couple of hours in the company of hot water and soap.

      “Yeah, Davy Gibson,” Josh repeated, taking in the new information. “He around?”

      The barman seemed more interested in the glass he was wiping than in conversation.

      Behind Josh, a round of laughter came from a group of cowboys, and he turned with heart-slamming speed, his hand instinctively resting on his gun. It took a couple of seconds to realize the man was busy telling tall tales to his pals and totally unaware of Josh. He willed his heart rate down to something less than a stampede pace and focused on the bartender, who still hadn’t answered his damn question.

      “About Gibson?” he prompted, struggling to keep his anger in check. Lord, he was tired and he wanted to end this—today, if the spirits allowed. He hoped like hell they did.

      The barman held up another glass toward the window as though studying it. He talked as he worked. “I know Gibson. What of it?”

      “Like I said, he around?”

      “How the hell should I know?” He called to a cowboy nearby. “Hey, any you boys seen Gibson from over at the bank?”

      “Heard he left town,” one called back.

      Like air to a flame, Josh’s temper flared. “Damn.” He fixed the bartender with an icy stare. “You sure he’s gone?” He couldn’t keep the flinty edge out of his voice. At least it was sharp enough that the bartender stopped what he was doing.

      “Well—” he put the glass down on the shelf behind the bar “—that’s what the man said, didn’t he, or are you deaf?” He braced both hands on the wood, arms straight, revealing a beer stain on the sleeve of his dingy white shirt.

      “But you don’t know for certain,” Josh pressed. He didn’t want maybes, he wanted answers. He wanted the bastard Gibson squared off in front of him in what would be a fair fight—fair as it could be, considering that Josh knew he was faster with a gun than most men.

      “Hell, how many times I gotta say it, mister?” The bartender spoke as though he were talking to a child. “I ain’t seen him around.” He made a sweeping gesture. “So… I figure… he must be gone. That clear enough for you?”

      Meanness was fast overtaking patience. This guy’s smug attitude was grating on Josh’s nerves and he was beginning to warm to the idea of rearranging the man’s face.

      “Well, where the hell did he go?”

      “Hey, what am I, his mother? He sure as hell didn’t come in here and say goodbye, if that’s what you mean.” He gave a cocky laugh and started to turn away.

      One second Josh was thinking about his sister and the men he’d killed, the man he would kill, and the next second he was reaching over the bar and dragging this grimy weasel toward him.

      All sound in the room ceased. Wisely no one moved.

      In a voice, deadly cold and hard as a Montana winter, Josh said, “Now, you little runt, you tell me where the hell he went or so help me—” he pulled the squirming barman up a little closer “—I’ll kill you right where you stand.”

      The man’s blue eyes bulged in his head. He opened his mouth to speak but the only sound was a gurgling, like a man dangling at the end of a rope.

      Josh loosened his grip a fraction, then shook the barman hard enough to make him groan. The man’s beady eyes darted around the room, searching for escape or for help. Neither was an option.

      “I…” He pried at Josh’s hands, his dirty fingernails digging into the flesh. Josh hardly noticed. Muscles along his shoulders tensed. Tendons in his back pulled wire tight. His breath came in hard, shallow gulps of smoke-filled air.

      “I…” The barman wheezed again. “I don’t…know nothin’.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Check at the bank.”

      “What bank, dammit?” His fingers were still twisted in the man’s shirtfront. There was the distinct sound of cotton ripping.

      “City Bank o’ course.” The bartender’s hands pried at Josh’s fingers again. “Gibson worked at the damned bank!”

      Josh had what he wanted. He released the man so suddenly, he half fell, half staggered back. Wide-eyed, the barman sidestepped away and pushed his crumpled shirt back into place.

      “Say, mister, you ain’t got no call to do that,” the barman muttered, sounding a lot less smug than a few minutes ago. He raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. “Davy owe you money or somethin’?”

      “Or something.” Josh tossed back the whiskey and winced. He threw a ten-dollar gold piece on the bar. “For your trouble.”

      No one said a word as he strode for the doors.

      Outside, standing on the boardwalk, he took a deep breath, then another.

      He glanced over his shoulder at the saloon. Damn, Colter, you’re losing it.

      Yeah, well, killing did funny things to a man. Lack of sleep didn’t help, either. He hadn’t slept in weeks, or at least it felt that way. Every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was his sister’s bloodied, lifeless body. Even now, if he—

       Stop it! You’re doing no one any good like this!

      Now there was a truth if he ever heard one.

       Okay, so the bastard is gone. You’ll find him.

      Hand clutching the rough wood of the porch post, he stood there, letting the sun warm his body through the blue wool of his shirt.

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