I keep my face down, but my eyes flash to my left as several men sidle up to the bar, leaning heavily against it.
“Four glasses,” they demand, and the barman moves swiftly, grabbing a bottle and sloshing dark liquid into the glasses, then shoving them across the bar. Even at his size, the barman is clearly on edge, his temples twitching. These men strode into the saloon, and the place is now as silent as the valley at midnight, when nothing dares stir. When a predator is lurking, hungry, searching for a kill.
The four men tip their glasses to their lips, swallowing all thedark liquor in one gulp, then slam the glasses back on the bar. The barman doesn’t need any coaxing before refilling them once more. They do the same thing again, but on the third refill, they ease against the edge of the bar, already a little loosened, a little buzzed, and start sipping from their glasses, in no rush.
But everyone else inside the bar keeps their gazes on the men, stiffened in their seats. Afraid to speak. To move.
“You have it?” one of the men finally asks, nodding at the barman. And that’s when I see his oil-slicked hair beneath his hat, the gruff jawline, the bolo tie around his neck. And the starburst branded into his forearm.
It’s him.
Samuel. The man who stood over me at the miners’ camp with an awful, needful glint in his eyes. Like he was waiting for any opportunity to shoot me where I sat. Quickly my eyes skip past him, looking for his boss—the man with the scar along his throat and two different-colored eyes—but there’s no sign of him.
A rattling fear scrambles up into my throat and I snap my eyes away, back to the bottle in front of me. They’re Theorists. All four of them. A brand burned into their arms.
I press my palms against my knees beneath the bar, to keep them from shaking. From being seen.
I need to get out of here.
I need to stand up from the stool without making a sound, leave the bottle, and escape through the front door. But when I cut my eyes toward the door, I realize that no one else in the saloon has moved an inch since the four men entered. No one has taken a drink from their glasses or stood from their chairs.
And if they’re all terrified to move, I should be too.
Only the man at the back continues to play his banjo, strumming slowly, as if he’s afraid to remove his fingers from the strings.
So I stay put, face turned slightly away from the men, hoping they don’t see me. Don’t notice, while anger and fear roil in my gut. From the corner of my eye, I see the barman step forward and slide a pouch across the bar to the bolo-tie man—Samuel.
The four men stare down at the pouch, before Samuel scoops it up and tips it over, letting a pile of coins spill out onto the bar. Two dozen at least. He drops the empty pouch, then settles his palms against the bar top. “You know that’s not enough.”
“I’ll have the rest tomorrow,” the barman answers. “The market just started today—there’ll be more customers tomorrow.” I notice that he doesn’t offer up the aspirin I gave him. That, he plans on keeping for himself.
Samuel cracks his neck to one side and runs his fingertips along his mustache. “Payment ensures your safety,” he says to the barman, as if it were a reminder, a slickness to each word. “You pay, we keep you safe. Simple as that.”
The barman nods swiftly, looking as docile as one of the Horaces’ newborn kittens.
Samuel blows out an irritated breath, nostrils flaring, then begins scooping up the coins.
But on the far side of him, where the two men who had been eyeing me suspiciously when I first entered the bar still sit, one of them takes a long drink from his glass, then raises his eyebrows to Samuel. “Who the hell are you protecting him from?” he asks, loud enough that the whole saloon can hear. I can also hear the slur in hiswords, the tipsy sway thick with alcohol. “You’re the only thieves in this town. Scavengers don’t even bother coming this way.”
Samuel slowly finishes collecting his coins, dropping them into the soft pouch and placing it safely into a coat pocket, then takes a drink from his glass. He is careful and unhurried.
“Theorists are the real plague,” the man spits now, his words gaining strength. “You rob every business in this town, demanding a tax for protection. You’re the scourge, killing us all faster than the sickness.” The man stands up, sways beside his stool, but grips the edge of the bar for balance.
“Gil,” the man seated beside him says, tugging on Gil’s arm. “Sit down and shut up.”
But Gil stays put, glaring up at Samuel, who is a good foot and a half taller, and a good ten years younger. “We’d all do good to kill you right here,” Gil says, pushing out his jaw, “bury you out in that desert where you won’t be missed.”
Samuel tips the last of his alcohol to his lips, finishing the glass. But still, he doesn’t turn to look at Gil. As if Gil’s not even there. And in the slow, languid moment that follows, I even see Samuel sway just a little—the heat of the booze pulsing through him. And I think maybe this is my chance. He’s distracted, head thrumming. But right as I flash a look to the front door, I hear the blunt exhale of air leaving lungs, and I turn just in time to see Gil shove Samuel in the chest.
And in an instant, everything changes.
Someone shouts behind me.
Followed by the grinding scrape of chairs being pushed back, clattering to the floor.
The silent, motionless saloon is suddenly thrust into chaos.
I turn, my head pulsing from the alcohol, and see Samuel grab the shorter man by the neck, pushing him against the bar, a large knife pressed to his quivering throat.
