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Such people had always been around, but Logan didn’t bother to point that out to her. “How about a steak, medium, and a baked potato with all the trimmings.”
“Anything else?”
“Don’t think so.” A burst of laughter from the bar area drew his attention. Idly he ran his glance over the crowd, noting that the Anderson brothers had moved to the pool table. “Busy night.”
“It’s Friday,” Sally replied as if that explained everything, then looked in the direction of the noise and blaring music, her expression colored by something thoughtful and a little sad. “We used to fill up mostly with cowboys from the surrounding ranches. They were a wild and rowdy group out for fun and a good time. They never had much money to spend. Cowboying still doesn’t pay that much. It’s one of those jobs you do because it’s in your blood. The crowd we get now mostly came here chasing the high dollar Dy-Corp pays at the strip mine. In some ways, they’re just as loud and crazy as the cowboys were, but it’s an angry loud, I’ve noticed.”
“A little homegrown philosophy, Sally?” Logan chided lightly.
She smiled at herself. “Age does that to you, I guess. Or maybe I notice it more because I’m not as happy in my work as I used to be.”
“There’s been talk you might be selling out.”
“I’ve been here thirty years. Maybe it’s time to call it quits.”
“Thirty years. I guess you know about everyone around here.”
“Sooner or later, they all come in here.”
On impulse, he asked, “You don’t, by any chance, know who might have a winch mounted in their truck?”
“You mean besides Emmett?”
“Emmett Fedderson.” He wanted to make sure they were talking about the same person.
“Yes. Off the top of my head, he’s the only one that comes to mind. But you might ask him. I may have the monopoly on food, but he has it on gas.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She started toward the kitchen. “I’ll have DeeDee get your food right out.”
Logan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, then settled back in the chair and waited for the caffeine to kick in and revive him. As relaxed as he looked, he never lost that sense of alertness. He had lived the life of a lawman too long for it to ever leave him completely. His eyes kept moving, noting the comings and goings around him.
Across the way, Lath chalked the end of his cue stick, leaned over the table, and took aim on the white cue ball. He drew the stick back and shot it forward, sending the ball crashing into the triangular grouping of colored balls. Amidst the clatter and rumble of balls spinning across the felt-covered slate, Lath straightened and walked around to a side pocket, picked up the chalk again, and rubbed it on the tip while he studied the table. Rollie stepped to the side, out of his way, both hands clamped around his own pool cue.
“Do you think he suspects us?” he asked in a voice audible only to his brother.
“If he does, it’s only ’cause you’re acting so damned guilty.”
Lath knocked the twelve ball in a corner pocket. Straightening, he threw a glance at Rollie, a smile forming. “Relax, will ya? He hasn’t got a single clue that’ll lead him back to us. He can suspect till he’s blue in the face, but without proof, he can’t touch us.”
“I know that,” Rollie mumbled, uneasy and vaguely sullen, his glance sliding across the room.
“Then whatcha worried about, huh?” Lath changed his stance, maneuvering for a shot at another ball. “Have some faith, little brother. Didn’t I say they wouldn’t find those cattle till today? Didn’t I?”
“Yeah, it’s all coming down just like you said it would, but just what the hell did we accomplish?” Rollie challenged him. “Sure, we butchered a beef and killed some cows, but so what? Calder’s got insurance to cover a loss like that. Ma’s right. We didn’t hurt Calder at all.”
The blue-chalked tip of the cue stick hovered a fraction of an inch from the white ball while Lath let the words sink in. Grimness plucked at a corner of his mouth. “Not this time, we didn’t. But we will, I promise you that. I just got to figure out the right way to do it.”
“Do what?” Rollie asked, catching something in Lath’s voice that had his eyes narrowing.
“When I got it figured, I’ll tell you.” He tapped the stick against the cue ball. It rolled forward, struck the edge of the striped fourteen ball and sent it spinning toward the far side pocket, where it grazed the bumper and caromed away from the hole. Lath swore good-naturedly at the miss, and stepped back from the table. “Your turn, little brother.”
As Rollie moved up to survey the table, the door opened and Emmett Fedderson plodded into the café-bar, dressed in his habitual rust orange jumpsuit, a billed cap covering his nearly bald head. He paused to catch his breath and mop the sweat from his face with a soiled handkerchief.
“There’s another one that needs to be hurt,” Lath remarked and lifted his beer bottle, taking another swig from it. “Only he’ll be easy to do.”
Gathering himself, Emmett turned toward the crowd at the bar and yelled above the music and noise, “I’m fixing to close up. Any of you need gas to get home on, you better get it now.”
