Demon Night

street. Gathered in small groups in front of the general store, several of Eden’s citizens turned to watch his winding progress, their concern etched in tight lines near their mouths.
    They needn’t have worried. Danvers had single-handedly delivered Eden from corruption; he wouldn’t allow the little piece of Heaven he’d created for himself to be desecrated by the likes of the McCabes.
    He walked loudly down the board sidewalk, alerting the watchers to his approach. He answered their nervous greetings with an easy smile designed to assuage their fears.
    These were good people, worth saving: the women in their clean, bright calicos and fresh skin and modest glances; the men with their work-roughened hands and solemn mustaches that always gave the appearance of a frown. Even the whores lounging in Madam LaFleur’s parlor across the street had the decency to cover their wares with proper clothing—and Danvers had made clear what would happen to men who treated them poorly. No one dared lift a hand or belt, and not one whore had sported a bruise in years.
    And for years, he’d had to decline their offers of payment. Their gratitude was enough, and, eventually, the wariness that lingered in their eyes would fade.
    Pride. He shouldn’t feel it, but he did. It was a fine place, Eden. And, though it wasn’t as lush as its namesake, the heat suited him.
    The interior of Hammond’s Saloon was dim, but Danvers had no trouble making out the faces of the men seated around the tables and at the bar. Apparently, they’d already heard of the McCabe boys’ approach; their expressions told Danvers they were eager for a kill, eager to collect the bounty on the outlaws’ heads.
    He’d have to disabuse them of that notion. Mobs, pandemonium, chaos—they were anathema to him. Men couldn’t live without order; Danvers provided them with it. And he’d continue to provide it, even if it had to be in spite of them.
    His gaze swept over the waiting men, and he delivered his pronouncement in a low voice. “We’re just locking them up to await the circuit court’s judgment.”
    Everyone deserved judgment.
    The men were disappointed, but the hunger in their demeanor transformed into a willingness to wait. Their conversations resembled the gossip of women.
    “…I hear tell they killed seven men up in Denver…”
    “…can bust through a safe in ten seconds. Ain’t no jail that can hold ’em…”
    “…they call the elder brother Long McCabe, on account of he’s almost eight feet tall…”
    Rumors, suppositions. Danvers sat at the bar and waited for his deputies to return. They wouldn’t be persuaded by hearsay; he’d taught them that observation provided facts, and to study well what they saw.
    Appearances were rarely deceiving.
    From outside the saloon, he heard the heavy tread of booted feet. Danvers was not given to superstition, but the sound suddenly spoke like an omen, the fist of God falling like a hammer against his skull.
    He looked toward the batwing doors. Silhouetted against the orange sky was the tall figure of a man, his shoulders as broad as a blacksmith’s.
    And Sheriff Samuel Danvers was absolutely certain that his little piece of Heaven was soon headed straight for Hell.

CHAPTER 1
    “So this cowboy walks into a bar—”
    To Charlie Newcomb’s relief, a chorus of male groans drowned out the rest, and her automatic Please, God, kill me now response died after Please, God . There were days she’d rather stab a cocktail umbrella through her eardrum than hear another “walked into a bar” joke.
    Thanks to the group of bachelors roosting at the end of her counter in Cole’s Hard Time Bar and Grill, this had just become one of those days.
    “No, wait. Wait!” Her tormentor’s voice was abnormally loud, but Charlie knew it wasn’t just the drink. He’d been obnoxious before she’d set the first reduced-calorie beer in front of him. “It’s a good one.”
    “Stevens, you dumbshit, there’s no such thing as a good one,” someone said as Charlie began unloading the small dishwasher beneath the bar, and she felt an instant of hope. A possible ally existed among the assholes. “Yo, bartender lady!”
    Charlie turned, flipping the highball glass in her hand to the rack near her hip. Her ally cocked a dark brow.
    “More peanuts, Blondie?” He pushed a wooden tripod bowl through a pile of shells littering the mahogany surface and loosened his red tie with his opposite hand. “I have to