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There was always more work to be done, of course. Any free moments were quickly filled with getting new glasses prepared, keeping the bar tidy, and the customers engaged. Chris was a bartender, after all—not a bouncer. It had taken some reminding at first, but five years is a long time to settle into a routine.
Which is why he didn't notice the ruckus about to start. The fine-honed edge of instinct that would have warned him of the changing tone in the room had been dulled by neglect. The first cry that went up, though, turned him around.
The card game had been going on for hours, in spite of changing faces around the table. None of the same people who had been there 'round lunch time were there now, but it was still one continuous game that hadn't let up. This time of night, most folks playing were regulars. Regulars and the country boy, passing through.
From the pile of money in front of him, he wasn't just some poor Okie. Maybe that was what he wanted them to think. Probably made him better money.
In the split-second as Chris looked up, the boy let out a yell and Chris took in the scene. It didn't matter to him that Mick Young was a fool, any more than it mattered that he raised chickens. The bartender didn't buy eggs, and he didn't care to fleece a prime candidate like Mickey.
But that didn't stop him from noticing, and it apparently hadn't stopped the Okie from noticing either. Well, it might have taken a while, but Mick seemed to have noticed, too, and from the look on his face, he wasn't taking the news well. His face was all twisted up in a snarl.
The chair behind him was already being thrown back onto the ground. Chris's mind raced. Were either of them armed? The boy, he knew, wasn't. Not with a pistol, anyways. Chris tried to recall when Mick had sat down, and then the big bartender was moving as fast as he could in the space of a heartbeat.
The noise and the smoke beat him to the table. Five years ago, he might have reached for his own iron, and even now he could feel an itch to pull it as a measure of safety. He quieted the reflex as best he could and sucked in a breath before diving into the smokey haze.
His hand came down hard on Mickey's pistol, grabbing and twisting and pulling with his left as his right rocked the farmer's chin. For a moment, the bartender allowed himself to relax. If Mick let himself stay on the floor, maybe that would be the end of it.
His vision swept the room to see what the extent of the damage was. The Okie standing there, his hands balled up at his sides, said that he hadn't hit whatever he'd aimed at. There was a hole in the table, and a hole in the floor, and a half-dozen men pushed back with their eyes as wide as could be, but no shock of red blood.
Chris looked back just in time to see Mick get up with anger in his eyes. He took his sweet time responding. It was his second mistake of the night. The Okie wasn't going to let him get a second try. Chris couldn't blame him, but the flash of a knife showing meant he had to step in anyways.
The feeling of a blade biting into his flesh never got easier to bear, no matter how many times it happened. Letting it get to him wasn't an option, though. Not when it could mean someone else getting hurt. His teeth rattled as he gnashed them together, and his hand came across in a heavy clubbing motion.
The boy clattered to the ground. The knife slipped free, and Christopher's heavy boot heel clapped down on top of it. The gash in his side felt wasn't one of the worse wounds he'd had, but his mind screamed at him to fight harder, to get out of the situation. Adrenaline and pain mixed into a heady cocktail that made it hard to keep his eyes focused and keep himself calm.
"Stay down," he growled, his hand dropping finally to the butt of his pistol in a threat that didn't need to be voiced. "Both of you."
He shot an eyelong glance toward the door. "Somebody go fetch the Sheriff, will you? We'll let the law sort this out."
The boy moved a little, and Chris pulled back the hammer on his pistol without moving to slip it from his belt. The audible 'click' stilled him.
"I got to get out of here, boss."
"You'll get a fair shake. We all saw Mick pull a pistol, didn't we?"
"I'm not going to hang for this," the kid says, trying to make himself sound more certain of himself than looked. "By God, I ain't gonna hang."
Chris turns to regard Mick, who sat on the floor rubbing at his lip where it had busted open.
"You neither. Don't move."
The Okie tried to protest a third time, but Chris cut him off.
"Soon as the Sheriff gets here, he'll get the whole story straight from me. He'll see what to do about it, and you ain't gonna talk your way out of it. I wouldn't recommend trying to fight your way out, neither."
The boy got a sullen look on his face. There wasn't a whole lot he could do to change the situation, though, and Chris was thankful that he realized it.
He'd had plenty of other stuff to worry about already. This was exactly what he didn't want to deal with today. The sound of footsteps outside told him someone was coming. Hopefully with a Sheriff in tow. Then maybe he'd be able to get back to his damned job.
The kid relaxed back down to the floor, finally getting his head on straight. Chris's hands shook as he pulled his pistol free of the holster to let the hammer back forward gently. In a minute, the adrenaline would pass, and then he'd see what needed to be done about the new scar he'd have in a week or two.
Five
There was absolutely no reason for the big bartender to have come back to her little schoolhouse at the edge of town. With no kids, he wasn't going to need to discuss her teaching. He wasn't going to need to see her for anything at all, and up until several days ago, h
e hadn't done it one time.
That didn't stop Marie from looking up, and somewhere deep down in her gut, wondering if he'd be standing there in her doorway again. It had been distracting. The sound of the rain slapping against the side of the building, though, told her more than adequately not to expect anything.
