Chapter 1: Incident In Texas

With forty minutes to go until noon, the temperature had just passed the three-figure mark. It was going to be a scorching day. Not one of the townspeople was outdoors. The only sign of movement in that baking heat was a horseman coming in from the west. Inside the grandiosely named Western Palace saloon the owner, Ed Martin, sat on his stool behind the bar that ran along the rear of the room. He was diagonally leftward of anyone coming in.

In the shady front corner, also to the left of incomers, the elderly swamper was on all fours, cleaning up a mess left the previous night. This fellow, Tom – he hadn’t mentioned his surname and nobody had shown any interest in knowing it – had arrived in town six months earlier, seeking employment. Now he spent some of his working hours tidying the saloon and the rest helping out in the livery barn, where he slept in the loft. When asked his age, he’d said that he was a little over sixty, leading one wag to retort that in flattering light the old boy might pass for eighty-five.

The only customers were two young cowboys who were having a second go at the hair of the proverbial dog. This was Monday and they had been in town since Saturday evening. Because they were too drunk to return to their ranch, the town marshal had invited them to spend the night in jail. Not needing to work on the Sunday, they had treated themselves to another binge and a second night as the marshal’s guest. Now they were making the most of their last couple of hours before going back to their duties.

The two cowpokes were at the north end of the long bar, twenty-odd feet from Martin. They were having fun at his expense, mostly by trying to think of appropriate names for what they were drinking. It was nominally whiskey, but they had found a few other expressions to indicate their feelings. Coffin varnish was their latest effort, to which Martin had retorted that they lacked originality, as the term was old and overused.

Though their remarks were made in fun, the cowboys were perhaps closer to the mark than they realised, for Martin was much like many another saloon-keeper in that part of the world, in that he was not averse to selling sub-standard liquor. When it came to whiskey, he often supplied neat alcohol mixed with tea, burnt sugar, chewing tobacco or any other liquid he could find to impart the right hue. And the provenance of his main ingredient was sometimes questionable. A customer had once asked Martin half in jest whether it was ethyl or methyl. The reply was short and cutting, but so ambiguous that it hadn’t entirely dispelled the doubts of some other patrons. One certainty was that the most common description of the stuff, rotgut, was accurate enough.

Outside, a burst of foot-stamping and beating of clothes heralded the arrival of the lone horseman, who was shedding dust before entering the saloon. Batting open the swing doors, he stepped in and took a slow look around before walking over to the bar, midway between Martin and the cowboys. About thirty-five years of age, he was a little under six feet in height, burly and with the exception of a white shirt, clad in black. His jacket was short enough to allow him easy access to a walnut-handled Colt forty-five revolver, worn low on his right thigh and held to his leg by a leather thong, indicating that he was a man accustomed to drawing in a hurry.

As if to bear out what the young cowpunchers had been saying, the newcomer demanded a bottle of Martin’s best whiskey. That meant he wanted a widely recognised brand and that he expected the vessel to be stoppered and sealed. No moonshine for this customer. The Western Palace kept only one such product, but it seemed to satisfy the stranger, who helped himself to a generous measure, knocked it back and poured another.

Ed Martin was garrulous enough with people he knew, but taciturn with others, so he didn’t make any effort to converse with the newcomer, who also gave no evidence of wishing to talk. As he worked his way slowly through his second drink, he stared down at the bar, seemingly sunk in thought.

A few minutes before midday, the cowhands were about ready to leave, which was all right with Martin, as they were becoming increasingly noisy. Suddenly the stranger looked their way. “Cut out that damned racket,” he growled.

One of the cowboys, Charlie Sawyer, a fair-haired fellow in his early twenties, stared at the man. “Mister,” he said, “you’d better watch your manners or somethin’ bad could happen to you.”