Hell, he'd seen a man's brains get blown out not more than a month after signing on as a deputy. The sight had turned his stomach, but it hadn't burrowed into his memory like this. Shaking his head, he drained his glass, hoping to burn the images from his mind.
"As I see it, you deserve it most every day," the bartender said, leaning against the rack of bottles behind the bar. "Dealing with this lot day in and day out would drive any man to drinking."
Jack replied with a cold grin. He could see the bartender's bald spot in the mirror above the bar. Despite his age, Boots seemed sure of himself among the miners, thugs, and other residents of Leadville. Then again, he'd stood behind the Pioneer's bar in the same black militaryissue boots for longer than Jack knew. No matter how disheveled the rest of him might be, Boots always kept those boots shiny and clean. A proper tribute to his days in the service, he said, but he refused to elaborate whenever Jack pressed him for details. Every once in awhile, the miners would get to speculating on the nature of that service as they drank away the day. Some said he was Custer himself in hiding, waiting for the day when he would announce his return and sweep away the rest of the Indian nations. Others, spurred on by the fact that nobody knew his real name, said that Boots was a deserter hiding from the government. Still others figured Boots had gotten his balls shot off in some battle and resigned in shame. Nobody knew for sure, and the bartender never offered to shed any light on their speculation. Ignorance was good for business, he claimed.
The bell over the door made a pitiful jingle. Glancing over his shoulder, Jack watched the newcomer make his way over to the card table. The man kept the wide brim of his hat pulled low. A few at the table seemed to know him and called out a greeting. The stranger responded with a silent wave and pulled up a chair.
"That one looks like trouble," Boots said, refilling Jack's glass.
"Why's that?"
"No respect. Bastard just waltzes in here and plants his ass for a round of cards without buying so much as a cup of joe."
Jack's third glass flowed down his throat. Potent as it was, the whiskey wasn't going to work fast enough to suit his need. Gray light from the saloon's windows winked at him from the empty glass, pulling him back into the early morning hours and the sharp scent of blood.
"If that's the worst of your problems, you got it easy," Jack muttered, not looking up. "Hell, I'd take a hundred angry miners screaming for my blood and call myself lucky if I never had to cross paths with that monster that did those wolfers in." Catching himself, he drew a quick breath and looked up, afraid he had let the secret slip, but Boots had moved to the other end of the bar. Relieved, Jack let the breath out and glanced at himself in the mirror.
The stranger was standing behind him.
The shock slammed into his ribs. He whirled around, his hand flying to the butt of his six-gun, but the stranger didn't flinch. The man's buffalo hide coat stayed wrapped around his small frame, and his hands rested at his sides. Jack couldn't see any iron on him, although he wore a leather rifle sheath across his back. All he could see of the man's face was his mouth, small and twisted into a mocking grin. Without a word, the stranger stepped up to the bar and rapped it with his knuckles.
Jack let himself relax, his hand dropping away from his gun. This close, he could see the man's rifle sheath in greater detail. The leather was old but well-oiled, marking a long and friendly relationship with the gunman. The stranger was shorter than the deputy, his profile hidden by the brim of his hat. A dark braid tied with a simple strand of twine ended halfway down the man's back.
The stranger rapped on the bar a second time, and Boots hurried over. "What will you have?"
"Whiskey. The good stuff," came the reply, followed by the clinking of two silver dollars on the bar. The bartender nodded and scooped up the coins. As the black boots disappeared into the storeroom, Jack almost laughed out loud. The voice had been low and quick, but there was