Only 06 - Winter Fire

he chose was close to the front door of the saloon—if a stained, tattered canvas flap could be called a front door.
    He knew that his greatest moment of danger would come when he ducked under the tarp and went from bright sun to smoke-filled gloom in the space of a breath. He didn’t hesitate. He simply slipped the thong that secured his six-gun in its holster as he bent and entered the saloon.
    A fast glance told him there were fewer men in the room than there were horses outside. He didn’t like that, but there was nothing he could do about it.
    Maybe they’re sleeping off their toot somewhere in the brush , he told himself.
    But he didn’t count on it. He chose a place at the bar that would give him a clear view of the dingy room and the only door.
    No one came to wait on him.
    No one was asleep in the narrow room that had been dug out of rock behind the bar.
    He turned his back on the empty bar and looked over the rest of the saloon.
    Four men were playing cards. Two were Culpeppers, but Ab wasn’t one of them. Though there was little physical difference between Culpeppers—they ran to lean, squinty, straw-blond, and mean—Case had been chasing his enemies long enough to tell them apart.
    Quincy, Reginald, and no Ab , he thought in disgust. Damnation. That old boy never is around when dying time comes .
    He cooled the flick of irritation by reminding himself that Quincy and Reginald weren’t exactly wide-eyed virgins. Their names were on most of the “Wanted” posters in Cricket’s saddlebags. They were reputed to be gun handy and ready to draw at a sideways look. Though they were fast with their belt guns, it was whispered both men preferred to ambush their prey.
    Reginald and Quincy were infamous for gut-shooting anyone who displeased them and then betting on how long the unlucky man would live. One of their victims had lasted three weeks. At the end, the bets were on how often he would scream before he finally packed it in.
    A fifth man was sprawled near the fire, snoring. A thin, mangy dog was stretched out next to him.
    Case began sizing up the room itself. It was little more than a natural overhang walled off on three sides by brush and covered by canvas that had been old about the time Lazarus was raised from the dead.
    There was no chimney for the fire that burned inside a ragged circle of red rocks. Smoke just drifted through the room, joined by streams curling up from cigarettes and cheroots. If the wind blew hard enough, the air cleared a bit. It also got cold enough to hang meat.
    Spanish Church wasn’t a lounging around kind of placewith a cherrywood bar, brass foot rails, mirrors, and fancy spittoons. The bar was made of whiskey barrels with planks stretched across their tops. The tables were the same, except for the one that had come from the bottom of Pader Gunther’s original wagon.
    Whiskey barrels cut in half and turned upside down served as chairs. Other chairs were made of mismatched cottonwood branches with cowhide stretched across for a seat. Wherever men hadn’t sat, hair in shades of red and brindle and white still clung to the stiff hides.
    There were many brands on the cowhides. Spanish Church had been a trading place for outlaws and rustlers for as long as the settlement had been crouched along a source of good water in a dry wilderness.
    â€œAnyone seen the padre?” Case asked easily.
    â€œDon’t boil your kettle,” Quincy said without looking up from his tattered cards. “He’s a-getting his beauty sleep.”
    Case glanced at the bartender and the dog. “That his wife?”
    One of the men snickered. He wore his gray-streaked hair Indian style, cut off at the shoulders with a knife and held away from his eyes by a band across his forehead. The headband wasn’t made of a rag or a length of rawhide. It was woven with a bold design that was neither Indian nor European.
    Though the man was a half-breed, he wasn’t a member of Moody’s gang.
    That’s the old outlaw they call Ute , Case thought. He must be here to get supplies for Sarah .
    Or himself. He wouldn’t be the first man to steal from a widow and kid .
    Ute looked at the sleeping man and dog, snickered again, and glanced at Case. Abruptly the old outlaw’s eyes narrowed, as though he somehow recognized Case.
    If so, Ute neither said nor did anything to draw attention to him.
    â€œOld man, ya gonna ante up or pass