T
HE BIG MEN ARGUED in front of the saloon’s south window, each of them armed with Colt six-shooters, neither of them what barkeep Len Bennet would call patient. Sunday afternoon and inside the Broke Steer it was shadowy and cool, the late summer breeze thick with alfalfa, and heat shimmered up from the fresh cut field outside. Len polished a couple mugs for the third or fourth time, just to look busy behind the long walnut counter. Pretending not to hear the accusations fly. Trying hard to keep his stomach from tying in knots. “You’re lying to me, Chet,” said Sanford Block. Chet Warner fired back. “Like hell.” The last thing Len wanted to see inside his young Bloomtown business was a fight. Sandy was the village sheriff, six-feet and some odd inches of gristle and cow dust wearing a longsleeved cotton shirt, leather vest, and jeans. Before a scrap of tin got pinned on his chest, Sandy had been foreman on the last road grade to climb the mountain, then ramrod for the Circle K—tough as any cattleman you’d find this side of the Missouri. His gun rig was custom tooled leather with a series
of flourishes and a rosette stamped on either side of his bullet loops. And the supple holster was stitched with an embossed five-pointed star. Mighty damned expensive. But cowmen made good money in Nebraska. Sandy’s Colt had mahogany smooth grips. Len watched the lawman poke an iron finger into Chet Warner’s chest and seethe under his steel breath. “You’ll give me the truth, or I’ll pound it out of you.” Len flinched at Sandy’s choice of words, glancing over his shoulders at his polished yard-long mirror and wall full of sparkling glass bottles, most of them at least half-full. The Broke Steer couldn’t afford to host much of a tussle. The bills were still unpaid from the last brawl to sweep through the place, and after his wife took him for all he was worth, Len needed to make do for a while with the inventory he had. Push-come-to-shove, he could tap one of the wealthy ranchers in the valley. But he hated to do that again. He’d gone to that well one time too many already. Red-faced and puffy, Chet let his liver spot-speckled hand drop to his waistline. His fingers brushed the
