Chapter 2

The “Blue Dog Saloon” was busy. At the end of a long bar, Caleb leaned against the glossy walnut while nursing a shot of whiskey. The booze had been watered down, but that moderated the fire in his throat, and he offered no complaint to the tall, skinny man placing a similar glass for another customer.

An outburst of raucous laughter drew his focus to the mirrored advertisement for “Beech’s Iron Beer.” Its reflection offered a view of the interior.

Walled by dark planks and lit by oil lanterns hanging from the rafters, the place seemed larger than from the outside. A dozen tables, surrounded by spindly chairs. Most patrons crowded games of faro; some were cursing, others, the source of that laughter. The joy of victory.

From many, the reek of sour sweat plus a more pungent stench said they’d come from the stockyards. A cloud floated in the air, courtesy of glowing cigars and cheap cigarettes clenched in yellowed teeth. A quick sniff also detected cheap perfume.

Among the patrons pranced and bobbed a half-dozen soiled doves of every shape and size. Hair in messy buns or draped over bare shoulders, with blousy white cotton tops above ruffled skirts, most were nothing to look at. A few were downright ugly. Yet, they did a steady business; grinning men followed practiced smiles up a narrow staircase.

When the bartender roamed near, Caleb met his questioning eyes and lifted the tumbler. As an unmarked bottle dribbled more golden fire into the glass, he remembered the man’s name.

“Thanks, Yancey.”

For a split second, the barkeep’s stoic visage cracked; few customers bothered with names. A yell from down the bar drew him away.

Left alone, Caleb took a sip. While rubbing a freshly shaven chin and grinning at the chill on a neatened neck, he recalled other things he’d learned that day.

First, Delly was a formidable woman. No sooner had a tiny bell jingled as he’d stepped into the hotel than its titular proprietor’s black-clad, rotund form had squeezed from a small room behind the front desk. Above a thick cross on the cannonball’s chest, a dour visage had inspected him. As if to keep it from harm, one bony hand had kept an iron grip on the guest ledger.

His gaze had flicked to a tintype photo, its frame trimmed in black lace, on a table beside the desk. A straight-backed, wire-thin man with bushy mutton chops, wearing the uniform of the Union Army. Three thick stripes on the sleeves said he’d been a sergeant.

“Um, I’m looking for a room,” Caleb had mumbled, returning to the silent woman.

After a quick smirk, the stone-faced proprietor glanced at the sign declaring that an oversized fool stood in a hotel. Even more intense, her survey had continued. When it’d settled on his unshaven face, his hand had risen to scrape the stubble.

“Uh, I can get a shave.” Like Minnie balls, her eyes had flicked to his collar. “And a haircut.”

“Do that,” she’d said at last, breaking her silence. The ledger slid across the counter. “Make yer mark. Dollar a night. No trouble.”

“No, ma’am. Course not.” One palm had risen while the other hand reached for the book.

“You a spiritual man?”

“Um, on Sundays.”

Although he’d flashed a smile, like a sandbag against a brick wall, it’d bounced off the scowl. After a sniff, she’d glanced at a closed door further inside.

“Serve breakfast. And supper. Midday meal on Sundays. If it’s closed, it’s closed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Despite his adding a solemn nod, her eyes had become slits. They’d grown intent as Caleb scrawled his name and tugged out a handful of coins. When he’d risked a further smile, thick brows had furrowed. The grin had dribbled from his face.