It was into the early morning when Jeff and the prospector strode into Mitchum’s saloon. They drew a few cross looks for carrying long guns to the bar, but these passed without any verbal protest. There was action at the faro table. Several cowhands, still wearing dust off the trail, milled about, stretching their bowed legs. And Rebecca was there, serving drinks. She was leaning against the bar, taking weight off one of her sore feet, when she spotted Jeff. Alarmed or ashamed, she immediately broke off eye contact.

She was as lovely as Jeff had remembered. The yellow hair and the unblemished, ivory shoulders. Jeff wondered about his vision, the image of Rebecca saying she’d wanted to come to him, but they wouldn’t let her. How true that seemed now, with her afraid even to look at him lest she drawing the wrath of the animals holding her captive.

Jeff stood his rifle and dropped a gold piece on the bar. He smiled at Mitchum, who stroked his muttonchops warily. “Two whiskeys,” Jeff ordered.

Mitchum placed two glasses on the bar, and reached for a bottle. As he poured, he seemed struck by a wave of nausea, and braced himself with his free hand. He poured the drinks, swept up the gold coin and stepped away. Jeff saluted the prospector with raised glass; the old man nodded at Jeff’s implication. One target had been marked.

“Can we get a fresh deck of cards?” Jeff asked. Mitchum grunted and Rebecca reached under the bar, retrieving a pack. She slid it the length of the bar to him. “Thanks.”

Jeff strolled to the center of the room. He hovered over the faro table for a moment, marking the sudden consternation of a pair of gamblers. They tensed up, mopped their brows. One seemed to vomit into his mouth.

“Never took to that game much,” Jeff remarked. “If we’ve got any poker players in the house, I’d be obliged by a friendly game.” He then took a seat at a large table, slapping the deck down. The prospector slid in beside him, standing his shotgun against the wall, less than an arm’s length away.

Two cowhands sidled up to the table, pulled back chairs and plopped down. They shook hands across the table with Jeff and the prospector. Rebecca brought a tray of chips; the men exchanged gold pieces and counted out stacks of red and blue. Jeff ordered a bottle for the table. She didn’t meet his eye.

“Where you boys in from?” Jeff asked.

“Lincoln,” one grunted. “Was riding for Chisum. Got tired of being bushwhacked at every turn.”

“That’s a full blown war they got up there now,” offered the other. “Never seen the likes of it.”

Jeff could tell by his sudden, gruff snort, the prospector was thinking the same thing as he: would these two be any good in a shoot out? Jeff broke the seal on the cards and began to shuffle. “Well, live long enough, you’re bound to see everything.”

He looked over to the bar, where Mitchum hung like a buzzard on a low branch. “Mr. Mitchum, we could use a fifth.” He nodded to the empty chair across the table.

Mitchum suddenly became animated, wiping down the bar. “Be closin’ soon.”

“Aw, that wouldn’t pay. Not when you’ve got customers.”

“Make hay while the sun shines,” the prospector chirped.

Rebecca brought the bottle and fresh glasses. She placed the whiskey by Jeff’s right hand, then nearly swooned, tipping the tray and almost losing the glasses. Jeff reached out an arm to steady her; she wrested herself from his gripped and snapped at Jeff. “You shouldn’t have come back.”

“Let’s not judge the cards before they’re dealt,” Jeff winked. “Mr. Mitchum, your seat awaits. You gotta give these boys a chance to win back some of the coin they put in your box.”

Mitchum pitched the rag. He threw off his apron. “Happy to take the rest of their pay. Take everything you got, too.” Mitchum strode from behind the bar to the poker table. He placed two tall stacks of chips down and eased his lengthy frame onto a creaky chair. Mitchum stroked his sideburns with long, calloused fingers as he watched Jeff deal. Jeff noticed, as Mitchum picked up his cards, long grey ridges in the man’s fingernails, which were especially dark at the root. As Mitchum read his cards, beads of sweat formed on his brow.

Betting proceeded until only Jeff and Mitchum remained. Mitchum pushed several chips toward the pot. His voice seemed lodged in his throat: “Call. And raise.” Jeff kept his eyes locked on Mitchum; he fingered a couple of chips and tossed them into the pot. “I’ll see you. What are you hiding, Mr. Mitchum?”

Mitchum curled his lip and placed his cards down. “Full house. Jacks over threes.”

“Hard to beat,” Jeff sighed, and Mitchum lurched toward the pot. “But not impossible.” Jeff laid four nines on the table. Mitchum audibly gasped, and, turning his head, wiped away spittle from the corner of his mouth. The two cowhands stirred in their seats, on edge over Mitchum’s odd behavior, and Jeff’s passive, but readily apparent, determination to provoke it.

“Look, we’s just here to play cards.”

“That’s what we’re doing,” Jeff drawled. He passed the deck to the prospector who shuffled. “A relaxing game. Mr. Mitchum works entirely too hard. He needs every opportunity to relax.”

The cards spun across the table. The game proceeded. Each hand he lost provoked a snarl from the saloonkeeper; each winning hand a hoot, bordering on a howl. Jeff marked each change in Mitchum’s temperament and visage: an uncontrolled tapping of his foot, a tic-like scratching of his neck behind the ear, a glow and intensity to his eyes, and a shadow of beard creeping forth blending with the muttonchops. Mitchum’s peculiarities proved contagious: the crowd at the faro table snarled, stomped and scratched in sympathy. Jeff watched several of the townsmen, keen to the implications, excuse themselves and head for the door. The newcomers were getting spooked as well. Jeff knew he had to make his move, if he wanted to draw the cowhands into the fight, adding their weapons to his. Then there was Rebecca, growing more and more anxious every moment. Jeff hated to see the strain on her, but soon she’d be liberated. She’d have nothing to fear ever again.

The betting came down to Jeff and Mitchum once again. Mitchum tilted his head to examine his cards, then slid two piles of chips forward. Jeff matched him and raised. Mitchum snorted. He licked his lips and read his cards again. “Why don’t we end this right here?” he growled.

“My thought exactly,” Jeff answered.

Mitchum slid all his chips to the center. Jeff did likewise, then leaned back in his chair. “And I’ll raise you. This.”

Jeff placed a stack of silver dollars on the table. Mitchum’s eyes bugged out. He seemed to suppress a yelp as he pitched to his right. Alarmed, Jeff threw his hand down to his holster, but the saloonkeeper righted himself.

“I got cash in the tin. I can cover that. What have you got, Major?”

Jeff laid his cards out. He had nothing. “You win, Mr. Mitchum.”

The saloonkeeper sat stunned, slack-jawed. He breathed through his mouth. “A bluff.”

“Repayment. On behalf of a friend. Take it.”

Mitchum didn’t move. He panted, his shoulders rising and falling, as though building to inexorable fury. Jeff feinted left, then pitched the table upward, hurling the silver coins into Mitchum’s lap. “Take it!”

With a roar, the wolf was out. The prospector’s shotgun exploded into the beast’s chest. Jeff unloaded several silver bullets into the fiend, then spun right as two more charged his way. The bullets tore flesh, crippling the brutes with excruciating poison. But Mitchum wasn’t done. He leapt toward the bar, bounding over and behind it. Rebecca staggered back towards the stairs. Jeff scrambled to place himself between the beast Mitchum and her, but bullets whizzing past forced him to the floor.

Some visiting cowhands fled, firing behind them, only to be pounced upon and torn to pieces before reaching the door. Some leapt through windows, then fired back into the saloon. The prospector crouched behind the upturned table. Peppering the black mass that had been Mitchum with silver flashes, he kept the beast from creeping towards Rebecca who crawled desperately up the stairs to the second floor landing.

But then the curs were reinforced, as two hellions charged through the swinging doors. Jeff emptied his revolvers into them, but couldn’t save his friend. The prospector opened his shirt to bare the silver chains and platter the clerk and armored him with, but the wolves tore his legs to pieces. Now Jeff lay prostrate, his rifle out of reach. The two new arrivals snarled and the Mitchum beast crouched on the bar, ready to pounce. Jeff took one last look at the second floor landing where Rebecca wept. He wanted to say he was sorry. He’d failed. He’d been ready for his own death a hundred times, but to lose her, this time, he hadn’t thought it possible.

Mitchum sprang, and was met with a blast that tore his head of his shoulders. Jeff swung toward the entrance, where the googley-eyed clerk, bedecked in silver tea sets, utensils and candelabrum leveled a shotgun and scattered the remaining wolves. Jeff scooped up his rifle and shot a beast as it tried to leap behind the bar. He broke towards the stairs, leveling the rifle behind the bar, and put two more shots in the wolf for good measure.

The saloon was secure. Jeff saluted the clerk and bound up the stairs, fixing his eyes on the door Rebecca must have slipped through. How light he felt as he strode to across the landing. “You’re free,” he could tell her. It had come at a terrible cost; the prospector had been a good man. But they’d won; the girl was free, and now Jeff would be free as well.

He rapped lightly on the door. He held, listening for her, but of course she wouldn’t answer. She’d be terrified, weeping on her bed. He threw the door open, clearing a path for a gaping maw. Jeff saw a black blur, a flash of white teeth, and as his leg opened in a crimson gash, he knew why Rebecca had not come to him.

***

He was a saddle tramp, he had to admit. Charging with the Confederate cavalry was the last ambitious thing he’d ever done. When his Rebel delusions about winning the war were shattered, his ambition became simple survival. When the war ended, his brief glimpse of Reconstruction was enough to send him galloping west. He wore out Texas and pushed onto New Mexico. He’d stuck it out in Lincoln County, until it became too reminiscent of Goodrich Landing and Miliken’s Bend, and countless other failed charges against the Union forces: all the carnage, with none of the lofty principles to impel it. He’d given his notice, collected his pay and ridden southwest with no particular end in mind. He’d come across the windswept town just as he’d begun to crave human contact again. The saloon wanted paint; the floorboards creaked. But the gal at the bar caught his attention. Beauty was rare in these parts, and nearly unheard of in any white woman who’d dare stray this far west.

The saloonkeeper walked with a limp. He sported heavy muttonchops. Still, the saddle tramp saw something, a specter from long ago. A gentleman of Louisiana. An officer from a distant campaign.

“Major Beauchamp?” he inquired. The saloonkeeper seemed to grind his teeth. He nodded and commenced wiping the bar.

The saddle tramp was incredulous. What a magnificent coincidence! He blurted, “How does Major Beauchamp of Evangeline Parish wind up in Malpaís?”

The saloonkeeper didn’t lift his eyes, but he poured three fingers of whiskey and slid the glass forward.

“Have a drink. We’ll talk about it.” He shot a glance at the saloon girl, then turned back, muttering, “Just be aware, we don’t take silver here.”