“Aw hell,” Dave said as he stepped up to the bar, pool cue in his hand. “You old-timers talk like you got one foot in the grave.” He picked up his beer glass, drank down the rest of what was inside and slammed the glass to the bar. “Not me!” he yelled. “Hell, boys, I’m just getting’ started!” Dave’s caterpillar moustache was now being accompanied by a scraggly light brown beard that grew in patches all over his chin, but hardly at all on his cheeks. He said he grew it to keep his face warm in the winter. Topher doubted it would keep him warm even in the summer.

He was playing pool with a local boy named Jerry who worked at the rodeo grounds part time. Jerry had wanted to get a full-time job on one of the ranches in the area, but everyone knew he was much more suited to the job he currently had. A little slow-witted, but a master of the pool table, Jerry had already taken thirteen dollars of Dave’s money that night, and with his next shot would make it fourteen. As a live version of The Marshall Tucker Band’s “Take the Highway” burst out of the jukebox, Jerry took an easy stroke with his stick, barely tapping the white cue ball and sending it gently across the table, where it nudged the eight ball less than three inches into the corner pocket.

“Damn.” Dave stabbed the butt of his pool cue into the floor and stomped his foot. “I thought I had him that time.”

Topher looked over his shoulder. “Hell, Dave,” he grunted. “You still got five balls on the table.”

“I know.” Dave turned and motioned for Lou to fill his glass. “That was my strategy. I was gonna get all my balls lined up for good shots, then when the time was right, I was gonna run the table.” Topher looked at him with an expression that said, You’re kidding, right? “Only problem was, Jerry, there, run the table before I could.”

The door swung open, causing a gust of cold February air to rush in through the bar, and a man in a large cowboy hat, heavy canvas coat and high-top boots with spurs strapped to them strolled in, closing the door behind him. He stopped briefly at the door, scanned the patrons, and seeing Topher and Dave at the bar, slowly, but deliberately sauntered over next to them.

“Bottle of Bud,” he said to Lou as he pulled open his jacket and took a small wad of cash from his vest pocket. “Evenin’ boys.” He nodded to Dave and Topher. They nodded back.

Topher had sized the man up before he had even made it to the bar, and he didn’t like him. He was going to try to pass himself off as a top hand, but Topher already knew he wasn’t. His hands were the first things that gave him away. His fingers were a little too thin and clean, and his fingernails were a little too long. A man with thin, clean fingers more than likely hadn’t done too much hard work in his life, and long fingernails when working around livestock just weren’t smart at all. Long fingernails would always be broken and caught on things, and even when a real working cowboy was out of work, he usually kept his nails trimmed short out of habit.