Chapter 3 Three

It was a day carved in contradiction, a day in which sorrow and celebration commingled like oil and water, each vying for dominion over the hearts of those gathered in the lonely stretch of the desert. For Grinder, the day bore the bitter stench of loss: his general store and the adjoining saloon, bastions of life amid the barren lands, had been wrested away by the callous hands of old Archie Harrington. Harrington's crusade to "clear up the landscape" had plunged the cowpunchers into a dismal gloom-a relentless mourning for the vanishing sanctuary where they once found solace.

In that grim moment, every man in the fifty-mile square of this sun-scorched domain was forced to reckon with the painful reality that the oasis of civilization now lay farther away, promising only dusty, thirsting leagues of exile.

Yet, even amid such desolation, fate has a curious sense of humor. The day, though stained with sorrow, was also marked by a raucous invitation to revelry. Grinder's impending departure had been trumpeted by the murmuring wind itself, calling all those hardened souls to witness one last saloon-night spectacle. In a parade of buckboards and cattle ponies, men arrived in continuous streams, their arrival as inevitable as the rising sun. From the outskirts of the gathering, riders came without ceremony, their horses tethered only by the loose reins that fluttered like the tattered remnants of a bygone era. Their arrival was heralded by booming calls of comradeship-a chorus of shouts that united strangers with each raucous greeting and a shared drink at the bar.

Among these many voices stepped forth one man who, unlike the habitual chorus of jovial familiarity, was greeted solely by the echoing slam of a saloon door. He was a tall and striking figure, his tawny hair catching the light of the setting sun, revealing an almost predatory glint hidden in his calm eyes. Riding atop a strong bay stallion-a creature of unmistakable breeding and grace-this enigmatic cowboy commanded more than just attention. His horse, two hands taller than an ordinary cattle pony and built as if sculpted by fate itself, bore the unmistakable promise of battle and the wilderness of legend. As he entered, his warm "Howdy, boys!" rippled through the throng, an unassuming benediction that nevertheless carried the weight of authority. With a casual gesture, he beckoned the crowd to draw near, ordering them, "Line up and hit the red-eye," as if marking the end of an era with each measured word.

Clad in carefully chosen attire that contradicted the rough-hewn milieu-a tall-crowned sombrero, well-worn chaps, and modish riding-boots, the stranger exuded both elegance and danger. His well-modulated voice hinted at an education most could only dream of, yet it was the subtle details that set him apart. Hanging low by his side, a six-gun spoke of a readiness born not of vanity but of necessity; his weathered, sunburned right hand told tales of long days under the searing desert blaze and nights embraced by ancient, unforgiving stars. His eyes, direct and unyielding as desert flint, roved over each listener, a silent arbiter of their worth. Few noticed, however, that from his whisky glass he allowed only a scant measure of liquor-a symbol of a man who valued the spirit above the substance.

No sooner had he taken his seat than another figure equal in mystery but contrasting in every detail rode into view. This newcomer was short-legged and barrel-chested, his bearing rough-hewn and his face partially obscured by a ragged mop of black hair. Rolling a cigarette with deliberate ease as he staked a claim in a shadowed corner of the bar, he epitomized the archetypal mountain desperado with secrets etched in every scar. The tawny-haired rider, finding kinship in the quiet stir of the moment, took the seat beside him.

"Seems to be quite a party, stranger," remarked the tall man with an air of easy familiarity.

"Sure," grumbled the barrel-chested figure in response, his tone edged with the coarse timbre of the range. After a pregnant pause, he added with a hint of curiosity, "Been out on the trail long, pardner?"

"Hardly started," replied the taller man, as his eyes betrayed the weariness and determination of a life lived on the knife-edge between hope and despair.

"So'm I. Got a lot of hard riding ahead_ lots of long, unyielding rides," he continued, as if to underline the mutual burden of their fates.

The shorter man, his eyes glinting with a stray spark of mirth, noted, "Long rides are hell on hosses and men alike."

"True enough," the other nodded, his tone softening as he tilted back, lost momentarily in a reflection upon endless highways forged in dust and memory.

In the midst of their quiet exchange, an intimate murmur crept in-reserved words passed as if from the depths of a shadowed soul. "How long do you stay, Ted?" inquired one with barely a whisper.

"Noon," came the measured reply.

And again, in a cadence learned from hard lives and long nights, Ted remarked, "Me too. We must be slated for the same ride. Do you know what it means? The chief's nearly here."

Amid the low hum of conversation, an abrupt and raucous greeting broke the murmured intimacies; a newcomer had burst through the door. The attention shifted as Ted seized upon the noise, declaring boldly, "If Grimwood said he'd come, he'll be here. But mark my words he's crazy to face a gathering full of these hardened range riders, Will."

"Take it easy," Will replied, smoothing the turbulence with a calm born of countless rides across rugged lands. "This joint is far off our usual trail_ no soul will mind if he shows his face."

"His hide is his own," Ted retorted, yet his tone carried an undercurrent of caution. "I warned him before."

"Shut up," Will murmured, just as the wide doors admitted two more figures: one, a towering presence accompanied by a diminutive man with a face weathered by both time and desert dust, their arrival part of a Grimwood procession that announced the presence of Cole Grimwood and Jim Case.

Like a ship parting the crimson tide, the imposing man strode to the bar. The assembled crowd made way, instinctively conceding the space as if honoring a certain ancient code. Without fanfare but with an undeniable gravitas, Case moved beside him. In that charged moment, the gathered cowpunchers, now divided by quiet circles of loyalty and rivalry, found themselves tethered by an unspoken need for order.

"Now, now-," Ted began softly, breaking the heavy silence. "Well?"

Cole Grimwood answered, his voice low and resolute, "I'll tell you what it is once we're on the road."

"Plenty of time, Danny," quipped Will, his tone light yet edged with seriousness.

"Who'll start first?" ventured Will further, his voice a quiet inquiry as shadows lengthened in the dim saloon light.

"You can, Durov," came the measured reply, as if marking destiny by name. "Go straight north and ride slow. Then Danny will follow, Case next-and I shall come last, for I was the final arrival. There's no hurry tonight-what's this commotion?"

Before any could answer, a loud, angry voice shattered the tenuous peace from a remote corner of the room.

"You must've been drunk and seein' double, partner," drawled one, while another immediately contested, "Look here! I'm willin' to take that any way you damn mean it!"

The confrontation escalated as voices grew heated-a blur of grim determination and old grudges. The air was charged with the promise of violence, and every man in the room felt the weight of unsaid oaths and unaddressed hostility. The two disputing cowpunchers locked eyes, fists twitching in anticipation, their right hands resting with stately defiance low on their hips. The tension vibrated through the floorboards as every onlooker braced for what might become an all-out brawl.

Then, with the sudden force of a collapsing star, Grinder himself intervened. His eyes, wide and burning with desperation, snapped open as he leapt onto the bar with an agility that belied his once complacent, plump exterior. With a booming roar that carried the authority of fate unbending, he slammed his hand upon the counter, a tyrant of necessity overriding the surging tide of aggression. "Look here!" he thundered, his voice echoing like the crack of a whip. "It's only by way of a favour that I'm lettin' you boys bear shootin' irons tonight-because I promised old Harrington there'd be no fuss. If you've got any troubles, take them to the hills. There's no room for such madness in here!"

In that moment, the clamor subsided as if the desert itself had paused to honor Grinder's declaration. The angry whispers receded under the gravity of his command, leaving behind the rustle of shifting bodies and the soft murmurs of resigned respect.

"I ain't huntin' for no special kind of trouble," he drawled, his voice a mix of resignation and grim humor, "but Jack's been ridin' the red-eye so darn hard, it's like it's scorched whatever dried-up bean he calls his brain."

A soft, sardonic laugh broke the brittle silence as Lee, exuding a calm that belied the tumult around him, replied in measured tones, "Now, partner, I ain't yet sampled enough of the devil's hot stuff to fall for the lines you're spinnin'." His eyes, dark and unwavering, then shifted towards Grinder with a conspiratorial glint. "Duke here's been claimin' he once knew a feller-some miracle worker who'd drill a dollar at twenty yards every single toss."

The saloon erupted in mirth, a chorus that swelled like a desert storm, and Grinder himself laughed the loudest, though his smile was edged with bitter irony. "Did you have Trillin' Jack in mind?" he teased, his voice carrying both the weight of memory and the sharp tang of disbelief.

Duke's tone wavered between defiance and uncertainty. "No, I didn't," he insisted, "and I never said that feller could drill 'em every single time. But I'll tell ya true_ he made it two out of four times, sure as the sun cuts the horizon."

Grinder shook his head slowly, the lines on his face deepening with a mixture of amusement and incredulity. "Now, Duke, I swear, you must've been drinkin' when you laid that tale on me. I can't deny Trillin' Jack has his moments_ he's known to accomplish more than any mortal with a gun should but I've yet to see a man truly wield that power."

Lee's curiosity flared. "And how do you know this, Grinder? I ain't never once seen him pack a six-shooter."

Grinder's eyes gleamed with memories of long-forgotten confrontations. "Sure as the desert winds, I've seen him not only pack it but fire it in a way that defied common men's abilities. It was sheer happenstance_ a twist of fate, if you will that my own eyes beheld that spectacle."

Duke grew anxious, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Well, if you admit it's possible for Trillin' Jack to do such miracles, then I say I've seen a man who could pull that trick off." The murmur of speculation surged through the gathered crowd like a warning before a dust storm.

"Now, who in blazes is this Trillin' Jack?" Cole Grimwood inquired, his tone both skeptical and tinged with a dark curiosity.

A bystander, voice husky with legend and lore, declared, "He's the man who caught Nightfall himself and rode him into oblivion." The tale was spun with the wild flourish of desert myth, eliciting a wry chuckle from some, while others simply shook their heads in disbelief.

"Some man, if he can ride the devil!" Ted Danny laughed, the sound echoing against the rough-hewn walls of the saloon.

With a slow nod, Duke elaborated, "I mean, folks spoke of a black mustang runnin' wild-untamed, fiery_ a symbol of freedom and damnation intertwined. They whispered of his wonder with a gun. But truth be told, only Grinder claims to have seen him work that deadly art."

Grinder, ever the arbiter of frontier tales, leaned back and said, "Maybe you did see it, and maybe you didn't, but there are plenty of fine shots in this room. I'd wager fifty bucks that none here could hit a dollar with their six-shooter at twenty paces on a fair day." His challenge hung in the air like the ghost of a promise waiting to be tested.

Before the tension could be fully measured, Will Durov interjected with a wry smile, "While they're arguin'," he said, "I reckon I'll hit the trail."

Cole Grimwood, never one to miss a moment for mischief, grinned broadly and called out, "Now, let me have a bit of fun with you short-horns." His voice carried an amused yet steely challenge as he raised his tone, "Are you makin' that bet just to stir trouble, partner, or do you intend to back it up with cold, hard cash?"

Grinder's eyes flashed as he pivoted towards Grimwood, his voice sharp as a drawn blade. "I've never pulled a bluff in all my years that I couldn't back up!" he snapped, his pride and honor inextricably bound to every wager.

Grimwood's response was smooth as the desert night. "Well then, I ain't so flush as to turn down fifty bucks, especially when a kind Christian soul_ if I may borrow the preachers' turn of phrase-slides it into my glove. So, lead out the dollar, friend, and let's kiss it goodbye!"

Grinder nodded, a slow and deliberate gesture, and in the span of a heartbeat, fifty dollars in gold passed into the waiting hand of an ever-watchful Irishman chosen to safeguard the stakes. Soon, the buzzing saloon spilled out into the open air as a dozen bets were hurriedly placed, each man staking his claim on the outcome of fate. Although a majority leaned towards Grinder's surety, a not-insignificant few found themselves drawn to the unwavering, inscrutable gaze of Cole Grimwood_ a stranger whose stern countenance, unwavering composure, and almost otherworldly poise commanded an unspoken trust.

"How do you stand, Cole?" Ted Danny asked, his voice quivering with genuine concern. "Is this truly a safe bet? I've never seen you try such a mark before!"

Grimwood's reply was calm, measured, and void of pretense. "It isn't safe, not if it meant I had to waste my best shot. But these odds that dollar in flight are as even as the shifting sands. Take your pick."

Ted frowned, shaking his head slowly. "Not me. If you had ten chances to hit that moving dollar, I might dare place my coin on your skill. A stationary coin's one thing, but the moving one is as unpredictable as the desert wind."

Then Grinder's voice rang out from a distance, exactly twenty paces away. "Here you are! Are you ready?" His challenge sliced through the murmurs of the crowd, marking the transition from talk to fate-bound action.

With practiced precision, Grimwood whipped his revolver into view, letting it gleam in the relentless desert sun as he assumed his stance. "Let 'er go!" he commanded, his voice cool and steady_ a promise of what was to come.

The coin was sent aloft, spinning in the air with an almost hypnotic grace, a tiny disc of glittering fate against the endless blue. In that suspended moment, Grimwood fired-a shot that found the coin's flight path but not its descent, leaving the coin to tumble untouched. His challenge settled in the quiet gasp of anticipation.

Grinder, his tone dripping with sarcasm and self-assurance, called out, "As a kind, Christian soul, I ain't in your class, stranger! Charity's always so interestin' when I'm on the receivin' end." His words, though jaded, were laced with the undeniable heat of competition, provoking a ripple of chuckles and clapping from the gathered cowpunchers.

But Grimwood's face remained as impassive as the stone walls that bore Grimwood witness to so many such duels. "Don't pack up your doubts just yet, partners," he drawled slowly. Then, turning his piercing gaze upon Grinder, he announced, "I got one hundred bones bettin' that I can plug that dollar on the second try." His words, delivered with a certainty born of ruthless habit, added a new edge to the challenge.

Grinder, aware of every heartbeat in the room, grinned as he addressed the assembly, "Boys, I hate to do this, but business is business. Here we are once more." With that, the coin was released again into its graceful arc, and Grimwood-lips drawn tight, brows knitting in deep concentration_ waited until the coin reached its zenith. In one fluid, almost preordained motion, he fired; then, as if defying fate itself, he fired once more. The coin danced through the air in a brilliant, flashing semicircle_ a performance of gunplay so exquisitely choreographed that even the roughest voices in the room hushed in admiration.

Amid the swelling applause of men hardened by the rigors of the trail and the unyielding desert, Grimwood strode toward Grinder with an outstretched hand. His tone was gentle, yet carried a gravity that silenced lingering doubts. "After all," he intoned quietly, "I knew you weren't truly hard of heart. It only took a little time_ and a touch of persuasion to make you dig for coin when I pass the box."

Grinder's face, a vivid canvas of flushed indignation and wounded pride, contorted into a scowl as he reluctantly handed over not only his immediate winnings but also his hard-earned stake. "It took you two shots to hit it," he grumbled bitterly, "and if I were arguin' over a pint, maybe you wouldn't leave with that coin in hand."

Grimwood, with a mild and almost piteous look of regret mingled with inevitability, leaned in closer. "Partner, I've got a hunch a wanderin' intuition_ that you're actually showin' a pile of brains by not arguin' this here pint." His words, softly spoken yet piercing like the desert wind, hung in the charged air, a final provocation.

For a heartbeat, the room fell into that anticipatory hush_ a pregnant pause that heralded the approach of renewed conflict. But Grinder, his gaze locked with Grimwood's unwavering stare, merely swallowed his wrath. "I suppose you'll be tellin' your grandkids how you pulled such sorcery when you're eighty," he said scornfully. "But around these parts, stranger, they don't hold such wonder in high regard. Trillin' Jack," he paused deliberately, as if weighing how much of legend to unleash upon the moment, "can stand with his back to the coins, and when they're thrown, he drills four dollars easier than you managed one and he wouldn't squander three shots on a solitary dollar. That's the way the wild demands its economy!"